Tales from Cyrodiil: Before I Wake
by SickleYield
Summary: This is a story about Sleepers and Sleepless, about the lives and loyalties of the Kyn. This is a tale of two Dremora. Rated T for violence and themes.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Extremely Long Note on the Lore of Dremora

_Warning: Lore fans only! All others will probably be bored stiff and should proceed down to Chapter 1. If you wonder why I said something that seems odd about Dremora or daedra, come back and read this part again._

I've encountered a couple of questions about the Dremora lore established in previous _Tales from Cyrodiil_ stories, so here I'm going to stipulate what is demonstrable from Oblivion lore and what I'm making up. My normal approach is that I don't contradict lore if I'm aware of it, but I feel free to make things up that I feel fill in gaps in Oblivion lore. Similarly, if lore contradicts itself or lore contradicts gameplay (as it does on, say, Mephala's gender), I will pick whichever answer makes sense to me.

Explicit in Game and Lore:

-Sercen is a real ruin located east of the Imperial City in the game; I've exaggerated its geographic distance from that locale, but then I've never been quite sure of the "real" scale intended by the map of Cyrodiil. I'll be relatively true to its floor plan as well.

-Dremora, like other lesser daedric races, are not permanently killed in the way that races of Nirn are. Rather, a Dremora who is killed is separated from his/her body and cast into outer darkness, from which he/she must make a way back "through the voidstreams" in the "full order of time." Source: The ingame book _The Book of Daedra._

-Daedra describe themselves as having kin and clan bonds, although they also say "we are not born." Source: _Spirit of the Daedra. _

-Dremora do seem to have their own language, but the only excerpts from it are in their words for themselves (_Kyn _in plural, meaning _people, _and _kynaz _in singular) and the names of their ranks. It sounds vaguely ancient Hebrew or Assyrian, so when making up words from it I try to stick to that.

-Summoning of daedra entails a telepathic contact between summoner and summoned. I assume this to be true also of those Dremora who summon other daedra in combat. Source: _The Doors of Oblivion._

-It is possible to travel between Nirn and the planes of Oblivion without gates using a sort of teleportation, if the practitioner is sufficiently powerful. Source: _The Doors of Oblivion._

-Daedra in general and Dremora in particular do feel pain, fear, and some variation on loyalty, another thing they have in common with men/mer/beasts. Source: _Spirit of the Daedra._

The final rule of lore regarding all daedra and specifically Dremora, however, comes from _Varieties of Daedra, _another ingame book: "There is little chance of our ever understanding the various orders of Daedra and their relationships to the Daedra Lords and their dominions. …In one place and time they are seen to be this, and in another place and time they are seen to be the opposite, and in another place and time they are seen to be both this and that, in completely contradictory terms. …In short, what is to be known is little, and what is to be trusted is nothing."

Reasonably Deduced But Not Explicitly Stated:

-Dremora have two genders. Source: The Oblivion Construction Set, in which an entire rank of markynaz archers is female. Easy to miss without mods, since the Daedric female armor is not very feminine and you may never see them with it off (it is often not removable from bodies in the game). Confirmed by the UESPWiki, which is an internet resource but is generally considered credible on Elder Scrolls lore.

-These females normally look much like male Dremora as far as facial features; see previous. They do not have lesser status within their culture, as the rank of markynaz is that of a Lord of Lords and member of the Markyn, Dagon's council of lords (see _Varieties of Daedra). _Not known how this council structure relates to internecine conflict between Dremora.

-Dremora are capable of some sort of sexual behavior. Source: in Morrowind in the Temple quests, a Dremora rather graphically threatens to rape the player. Dremora in Oblivion also have all the physical apparatus that other races have and wear underclothing to cover it in the unmodded game.

-Dremora require some sort of sustenance, although this is probably cannibalistic as far as humans caught in their plane is concerned (see _Spirit of the Daedra_, "your flesh is sweet"). In game there is no food or places to prepare it in Oblivion, flesh or otherwise, but there are fountains of blood. This is why I've made Dremora in my stories blood drinkers.

-Most Dremora do not sleep. There are no beds in the plane of Dagon, only benches for sitting that are too small to lie on.

-There is some internal conflict between Dremora in Dagon's realm, but how that's arranged is not explicitly stated. I've made up some of this.

-The Dremora soul is some sort of kin to that of man, mer and beast – that is, they have "black souls" that cannot be captured by white soul gems. For nature of souls see _Souls, Black and White.)_

-Various dialogue in Morrowind and Oblivion describes Dremora as both cunning and honorable, but says little else about their nature; the book _Varieties of Daedra _describes some of their rank structure, but this is military rather than cultural. Higher-ranked Dremora have longer horns in the CS, but this is not addressed in print that I've found.

-Dremora have full command of at least two languages, their own and Cyrodilic, and probably more. Where they learned the latter is not stated, but it can be supposed it was probably from summoners or those who have found themselves trapped in Dagon's plane.

Completely Made Up By Me:

-The lore of Sleepers. They are not a part of the default game and there is nothing in Oblivion to suggest their existence.

-Dremora names. I've generally used Biblical Hebrew or Babylonian names to match with the sound of their language.

-Any other Dremora words besides rank names, _Kyn _and _kynaz_.

-The idea that Dremora who die in Nirn without having been summoned cannot find their way back to their home plane. Again, this is not eliminated by the default game because the eschatology of Dremora is not addressed except in writing. Here I'm sticking to what I've already stated in _Tales from Cyrodiil: The Cold Light of Day _and _A Second Cold Light_ with reference to the character LoAmai. The game does suggest that daedra in general require some point of focus in order to reestablish a physical presence, though that is mostly stated in the lore of Aureal and Mazken in the Shivering Isles expansion.

-Specific points of Dremora culture and emotional makeup. _Spirit of the Daedra _says they are capable of fear and confusion, but love or attachment is never mentioned and logically might not be just like human/mer/beast concepts of ditto.

-The idea that Dremoras are born rather than created. Where they come from is always nebulous ingame, although this does contradict the statement "we are not born" in _Spirit of the Daedra. _Kin bonds without genetic relationship make no sense without somewhat more explanation than is ever given in that or any other ingame text.

-The specific lore of the Tales from Cyrodiil miniverse, which I've established in previous stories in this series and will try to keep consistent; thus, the Hero of Kvatch is not an omnipotent superbeing, but rather a stubby tailless Khajiit (see _TFC: Luckless)_, she has performed mostly just the main quest, and other quests have been either performed by other people or not performed at all.

-The fall of the Citadel of Natural Disaster, as suggested by LoAmai in _TFC: The Cold Light of Day. _As usual, most TFC characters and situations are connected to each other in one way or another.

Thank you for your patience, and on with the show.

Chapter One

His name was Ebel-Merodach, and his was not a high caste from the very beginning.

This is not to say a Dremora begins as a kynval, or a kynreeve, or the Lord of a citadel. Most do not. And, while perpetual reincarnation makes it impossible for any higher-ranked individual to be truly removed from the scene, loss of a life generally means loss of one or more ranks. This is the order of things, and most Kyn do not question it – or rather, it does not occur to them to do so. Chaos, upheaval, and change are the norm and the constant in the realm of Mehrunes Dagon, that land of smoke and volcanic burning.

But this particular kynaz had taken notice of some things.

He had been a churl for a long time before a lethal disagreement with his immediate superior had raised him to the rank of caitiff. And he was a thinking kynaz, not a wild and undisciplined creature like some of his fellows. Merodach did not fail to observe that the longer one remained in a particular incarnation, the more powerful one grew. And the faster one rose in rank, the more vulnerable one was likely to be to, for example, lethal disagreements. He therefore considered that it well behooved him to make good and sure he had taken enough souls to keep his own in his current body before he sought any further advancement. Otherwise, at nearly twenty-five hundred souls, he ought to have been a kynval by now.

Sometimes the kynreeve who was his current superior officer annoyed him, but he kept that wisely to himself. He had watched any number of plots against that selfsame officer foiled, not by lack of planning, but by underestimation of the officer's power to defend himself. And so instead he spoke his mind when he thought it necessary, accepted a harsher discipline than was sometimes his due, and bided his time.

This was how Ebel-Merodach came to be among one of the first raiding parties to enter the Citadel of Natural disaster after the closing of the great gates into Nirn. He was, in point of fact, being punished for an open statement of his opinion of some decision of the kynreeve's. The kynmarcher of his own citadel was aware that most of Natural Disaster's citizens had been lost at the closing. Less certain was exactly how many survivors did remain.

This particular kynaz was tasked with being part of that reconnaissance, under the command of a kynval whom he disliked (although he had so far managed to keep this kynval unaware of the fact). Thus it was that he entered the dark and bloodied entry hall, with its central pool of lava, at the center of a pack of one or two other caitiffs and several churls.

"Go on, cowards," snarled the kynval from behind them. One or two of the churls growled back. All of them moved forward. The pool lay nearly dark and entirely quiescent, only the faintest gleam of fiery yellow crossing its surface. The Citadel's sigil stone was gone. That much clearly was true.

Merodach looked carefully upward before he moved nearer to it. The great central shaft of the Citadel's main tower went up for a long way, and its many balconies and railings were ideal places from which to drop things on the unwary. _Particularly if there are few survivors here, and those remaining have too few churls left to freely spend them._

The others were dispersing around him, the churls streaming into the two branching hallways as the lack of resistance emboldened them.

_But it would be difficult to aim anything without it falling into the lava, _Ebel-Merodach thought. _If there are spellcasters among the survivors, it would be to their advantage to wait until we reach the balconies and fire down the spiral when we are nearer. It is what I would do, were I a filthy krynvelhat myself. _He snorted at this thought and turned toward a doorway with his mace in his hand. The enchantment gleamed green on its flanges, a slick and poisonous sheen against the dark metal.

He knew how to deal with krynvelhat. Oh, yes.

Merodach wore full Dremora armor like most of his fellows, and it was far inferior to the tempered daedric steel that higher castes were permitted to wear. But another advantage to the longevity of his current incarnation was that he had had enough time to work at enchanting the armor as well. It was the only magic he had ever bothered to learn, beyond the most rudimentary healing, and even that had not come easily. Some kyn were born to be casters, like his current kynval. Ebel-Merodach was not among them.

So when he came around a corner of the ascending ramp and it opened into a room full of freshly dead churls, one krynvelhat, and one very angry Xivilai with a giant axe, he knew exactly what to do.

He ducked. The mage moved faster than her summoned, and the reflex to throw a spell at a suddenly-glimpsed enemy was nearly universal. It was also slower than Merodach's carefully-planned evasion. He spun easily to one side, lunged forward and low, and slammed the mace into the side of the mage's knee. She howled as she staggered, tried to throw another spell, but this one was less powerful and his armor absorbed the shock charge easily. The Xivilai came after him, but it had to navigate around the hobbled mage. The mace's poison was already doing its work. The krynvelhat crumpled onto her good leg, then onto her side, and then the Xivilai roared with rage as it dissolved into nothing.

Merodach spat on her corpse on his way past. _Incompetent. No doubt she was the only kynval left in the citadel. _His initial guess had been wrong. Anyone remotely clever must not have been left behind in the final assault on Nirn.

His leisurely search from that point on confirmed this guess. He killed creatures that had wandered into the citadel, an atronach of flame and a scamp, but most of the remaining enemies were dead before he reached them.

It was far up the spiral that he found the cage. His present kynval eventually found him there, back in a back passage off the hall that most kyn would call the Sigillum Sanguinis. Ebel-Merodach turned at the sound of footsteps, then lowered his weapon as he recognized Belteshazzar in his black robe.

"What have you found?" demanded the kynval. He had short horns for his rank, shorter in fact than Merodach's, and he hated intensely to have his attention drawn to that fact. He wore his hair braided tightly back to make the stubs seem longer. They gleamed in the dim red light.

"Hail, kynval," said Merodach. "The cage is enchanted and I cannot be sure what is inside."

"You have eyes in your head, caitiff," snapped Belteshazzar. He stalked up to the cage and inspected the bars briefly, then looked at what lay inside it. "She is kyn. So much is obvious."

Merodach did not reply. So much _was _obvious, and yet… Something was wrong. The creature lay on her back with limbs carelessly outflung, as if she had been shot dead on the spot, but she was plainly breathing. Her anatomy and her tattered robe made that clear at once. Her skin was barely mottled at all, and such a dark purple that it was almost black. Merodach thought she had the ugliest body he had ever seen on a member of his own race. Male or female, kyn were not soft. This _thing _had not enough fat or muscle on her to feed one hungry scamp, and there were little flaccid lumps on her chest, as if it she were an unusually skinny specimen of one of the races of Nirn.

If that wasn't bizarre enough, even with her head lying flopped to one side he could see that her horns were backwards. They must have been ten inches long, but they curled back on either side of her oval face. The one he could fully see made a tight curlicue around her left ear.

The expression of her face bothered him more than all the rest. It was utterly blank, not slack like a corpse's but firm in its expression of perfect unemotion. This is not an expression common to the kyn.

"There must be a reason why she is caged," Merodach said.

"Even your limited intellect has proceeded so far," said Belteshazzar. "She is some sort of freak, that much is clear. The Lord must have wished to keep her from the meddling of the curious."

"Ours will not," Merodach said. "She is disgusting."

"What do you know about it?" Belteshazzar said. "I think perhaps I will keep her myself." He smiled thinly. It was not quite a leer. "I have a use for her."

"As you will, kynval," Merodach said, stifling his own revulsion. "Your orders?"

"Continue to secure the Citadel and report back to the kynreeve," said Belteshazzar with a dismissive wave. "I will have the cage empty and ready for whatever use it is desired within the hour."

"Yes," Merodach said, and turned to leave. Behind him, he heard Belteshazzar carefully lift the bar on the cage door, and walked faster to avoid hearing anything else. Such a thing was not entirely unheard of, but it would generally be prisoners from other planes who were the victims. Merodach accepted that this was at least not prohibited. If he thought it a perversion, he kept those comments to himself. Whatever was wrong with the kynaz in the cage, she was probably not diseased enough to harm Belteshazzar in any way that would draw blame down on Merodach.

He gave it little further thought for some time. The Citadel was cleared of its few remaining inhabitants, and the churls and caitiffs gorged themselves on the blood from its fountains and its fresher corpses. Merodach took some as his fair share, but kept his wits about him. The kynaz in the cage had not been ordinary. It was possible other things in this place were other than ordinary as well.

Nothing of the kind seemed to surface. Eventually the message was sent and a reply received, and then others of the clan moved in to occupy the Citadel according to their ranks and their current standing with the kynreeve. It was not until Merodach attempted to seek out his kynval for a report that he encountered anything wrong.

The cage was indeed empty, and several higher-caste mages were inspecting it. He did not disturb them. Instead, he stopped a passing caitiff whom he knew.

"Hail, Mishael," he said. "Where is Belteshazzar?"

"Hail, Ebel-Merodach," said Mishael. He was neither as tall nor as solidly built as Merodach, but then, Mishael was a swordsman. They two were of a similar complexion, dark brown with amber mottlings like many others of their clan. Unlike Merodach, Mishael had pale amber hair as well. "I have not seen our worthless slime of a kynval. The last I heard he was playing with his new toy." 

Merodach gave vent to a disgusted snarl. "You mean that thing he found in the cage."

"Even so," acknowledged Mishael. "I suspect he is in the Corridors of Dark Salvation. There are many smaller chambers there."

"I will seek him there," said Merodach.

"I will seek you there later, for I have a question," Mishael said. Merodach nodded acknowledgement and went on down the ramp as Mishael continued in the opposite direction.

Eventually Merodach came to the pointed yellow doorway into the Corridors. It had been left open. He frowned at that and stepped carefully inside. Another spiraling ramp led up toward the main rooms of this portion of the Citadel.

He went up the ramp slowly. Partly this was because he did not want to see Belteshazzar at what he was no doubt doing, and partly because a sense of foreboding was growing on him. Partway up the ramp the scent of kyn blood, sharp and fresh, struck his nostrils. He drew his mace immediately. No slight wound nor any spillage from a fountain could produce that scent of pain and urgency. It would drive most churls mad with bloodlust, and some caitiffs as well. Merodach merely growled deep in his throat and continued his careful ascent.

The pattern of construction is similar in most of the citadels of the plane of Dagon, so he was not surprised when the corridor slanted steeply in front of him. He edged upward carefully. A very thin trickle of blood ran past him down the hall, following the channel in the center of the floor. The door into a larger room became visible as his head passed the threshold of the door on the steep slope.

What he saw might have been Belteshazzar. It might have been anyone. There were not enough recognizable parts to tell. The body of a kynaz had been torn to sodden shreds and thrown about the room, blood splashed up the walls as high as Merodach's head in one or two places. There was a fountain of blood and a fountain of mana in the center of the square chamber. Behind them, something stood half-obscured by the shadows of the columns that upheld the ceiling.

It moved as Merodach came up the ramp. A long and scaly snout emerged into the dim blue light from the mana fountain, and then he stared into the slit-pupiled eye of a daedroth.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The upright crocodile opened its jaws as it came toward him, a hungry parody of a smile. There was dark blood on its rows of curved teeth, and muscle rolled under the scale on its heavy, hunched shoulders. Its great tail swung gently to and fro behind it.

Merodach tightened his grip on the mace. It was likely that he, at a mere twenty-five hundred souls, could not fight off a daedroth on his own. The thought of calling for help did not even cross his mind. That would embroil him in debts he might not pay in many lifetimes. The loss of his current incarnation would be preferable.

Running would be useless. Daedroths were faster than they looked, and spellcasters besides.

"Did Belteshazzar summon you?" Merodach said. The daedroth hissed. Fire spouted from its jaws. Merodach avoided most of the blast, but felt the heat through his right pauldron. He threw himself bodily past the creature, swinging at a scaly leg as he went past. The blow connected, but then the fat tail swung around and caught him in midair. He was treated to a view of whirling walls as he flew across the room, and then he tucked his head down just in time to slam into the floor on his back.

Merodach rolled to his feet, gasping to reinflate his lungs. A shock charge crackled past his right ear as he dodged again, not quite as quickly as before. As he watched, the daedroth shook itself, jerking the wattle under its chin back and forth. A puff of white steam rose from its head and shoulders. Merodach swore silently as he realized it had dispelled the poison from his mace. That was the trouble with enchantment poisons as opposed to herbal ones. _But I am no alchemist._

A very slight movement caught his eye. He glanced that way quickly, reluctant to take his eyes from the monster in front of him. The dark kynaz from the cage sat slumped in a corner of the room, head lolling. He had no time to gauge whether she was alive or dead, because at that moment the daedroth gathered its thick haunches and leaped at him.

He stepped partly to one side and slammed the mace into its ribcage. There was a faint _crack _as a rib broke, and then one mighty claw hooked his breastplate and tore it off. His arm caught in the strap, and he was yanked upwards, nearly pulling his shoulder out of the socket. Merodach swung the mace with his free arm, but he was dangling in the air now. The daedroth grinned again, licking its chops. Its hot breath stank of brimstone.

Merodach dropped the mace and drew his belt knife. The daedroth swatted at him with its free hand, making him swing back and forth. He hissed as two claws sliced across his belly, and then he swung back toward the creature and stabbed up into the roof of its mouth with his belt knife.

Its jaws closed on his arm. Numerous teeth pierced his flesh, digging for the bone, and then the daedroth dissolved into yellow sparks and he dropped to the floor.

"Summoned," Merodach wheezed. He sheathed the knife, though it was difficult to pry his fingers loose, and groped for his mace in the welter of gore. Belteshazzar had not been powerful enough to summon a daedroth. _Someone else is here. _

He took stock of his injuries quickly. His right arm was bleeding in many places, pierced from wrist to elbow. He'd been lucky that the daedroth had not broken the bone or torn the artery in his upper arm. His shirt had gone the way of his breastplate, and he was bleeding freely from the wounds in his belly. All of this hurt, but a Dremora who cannot manage pain is unlikely to survive more than a soul or so in any given incarnation.

The biggest problem was that his left arm was pulled severely enough to interfere with his holding the mace, and his right was weakening fast from blood loss –

And he heard feet shuffling in a side chamber. Merodach's fingers closed on the handle of the mace at last, and he jerked himself upright with an effort. "Show yourself," he said.

What entered through the small doorway was not another kynaz. It was a pair of clannfear. They came toward him with mincing steps, flexing their tiny forearms. One of them rattled deep in its throat. Both were full grown, their heads at the level of Merodach's even with the stooped posture common to that race of lesser daedra.

"Flaming Scourge," Merodach said, and then he was fighting for his life again.

A very long five minutes later, Merodach fell to his knees. Both clannfear were gone, dissolved to sparks like the daedroth before them. The unseen spellcaster had won. He bled from many wounds now, with his right greave torn off and the flesh of his upper leg mauled. He kept a convulsive grip on the mace, but he was quickly growing too weak to lift it.

Merodach tried to stand up. His right knee gave out and spilled him to the floor again. His head was beginning to ache from the loss of blood, and the fountain in the middle of the room seemed very far away now. He growled, deep in his throat, and began to crawl toward it on his belly. The cuts in his flesh scraped against bits of bone on the floor, but he ignored it.

After a yard or so he became too dizzy to tell which way was forwards. Merodach laid his head on his arm for a moment to rest. When he opened his eyes again, there were booted feet in front of him. He looked up in time to see Mishael sink to one knee on the filthy floor, regarding him. A long braid of amber hair slid forward over his shoulder.

"Hail, Ebel-Merodach," Mishael said. "It seems your present life is drawing to an end."

"So… it… seems," Merodach said. The individual words were hard to master, dredged up from deep within.

"I could finish you, and add another soul to my tally," Mishael said.

"Yes."

"But that would be unworthy of me," Mishael said. "I might as well admit I could not vanquish you while you were strong."

"Even… so…" Merodach said.

"Nor will I place you in my debt forever by saving your life," Mishael said. "I need no such burden myself."

"Good," said Merodach.

"But I will see that your contest is fair. None will enter this room for the next hour." Mishael rose easily and turned to go. He paused on the threshold of the sloping hallway. "For myself, I hope you will reach the fountain. Farewell, Ebel-Merodach."

"Farewell," Merodach said to the other caitiff's vanishing back. He resumed his slow progress toward the fountain of blood. The stuff on the floor was already close to drying, no good to him.

His strength failed him after another yard or so of crawling. He rested on his elbows, trying not lose consciousness again as his head spun.

Something moved at the periphery of his vision. Merodach turned his head carefully to avoid oversetting his fragile equilibrium. The kynaz from the cage still leaned in her corner, but as he watched, she rolled her head upright against the wall. Her eyes slid open. They were very dark, for the eyes of a kynaz, but that was all the detail he could make out in the dim room. It seemed to be growing dimmer, in fact. Merodach had died only once before, but he remembered the experience quite clearly. It would not be long.

He edged forward a little further. The fountain was still yards away. Odd, he remembered the chamber as smaller than that.

There was a rustle of fabric. Merodach looked back at the dark kynaz. She was pushing herself onto her feet, staggering upright with a hand braced on each wall of the corner. Her robe was in even worse condition than before, torn across the bottom so that it showed her scrawny legs. The edges were stiff with drying gore. As he watched, she took a stumbling step forward, then had to lean against the wall again.

Then she looked at him. Merodach looked back.

"The daedroth is gone," she said. Her voice was thin and breathy, and the echo normal to a kynaz was almost absent. It still possessed a strange harmonic, a high and distant vibration. Or possibly that was the effect of blood loss. "The clannfear are gone also," the dark kynaz said.

Merodach bared his teeth as realization struck. "You…" he said. "You summoned..."

The other kynaz nodded once. Her face was still quite blank, and the dark eyes looked at Merodach as if they saw something on the other side of him. She took another stiff and unsteady step, then another. The next one brought her away from the wall. She lurched toward Merodach with the kind of gait generally seen only in infants and zombies. There was something in one of her hands, but the drape of her torn sleeve partly hid it.

Merodach breathed, forcing air into his lungs. He still had his mace, but he could not lift it. He contemplated drawing the dagger at his belt. She would probably scorch him to death with a spell before he succeeded. He was too weak to move very quickly.

"…killed Belteshazzar," he said. _And summoned the others to cover her tracks. She planned it to look as if he were slain by his own summonings. But that worm of a kynval could never have summoned two clannfear, let alone two clannfear _and _a daedroth. _He felt a grudging admiration for the attempt. It had been cleverer than anything Belteshazzar could possibly have conceived.

It meant his certain death, of course. A mage who could summon more than one creature at once was as much a rarity as a kynaz with backward horns. And by taking two souls instead of just one, she might add enough to her strength to be taken for clan-kin rather than property.

"I killed the kynval mage, yes," said the kynaz. Merodach frowned as she went around him, giving him a wide berth on her way to the fountain of blood. She shook her sleeve back, revealing the fragment of skull in her hand.

It had a horn attached to it. A very shiny one, short for a kynval. Merodach smiled in chill appreciation as the kynaz used it to scoop blood from the basin, then sipped from its edge. He was very thirsty. No doubt she somehow recalled that he had let the kynval have her. He would want revenge under the circumstances, too.

The dark kynaz made her stiff way over to the fountain of mana. The blue liquid plashed quietly in its basin. She stuck her face directly into the stream of magicka as it shot up, wetting her purple-black hair, and held both hands down in the basin. She stood that way for a few seconds. Merodach risked another short wriggle toward the fountain. He went too fast, and this time everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on his back. The dark kynaz knelt half-slumped next to him, regarding him with no apparent expression. Merodach glared at her, and then it registered that his wounds no longer pained him. He sat up, staring down at himself.

A thin scum of blood lay over his darkly blotched skin, but even now it was being drawn in as his pores absorbed it thirstily. The cuts across his belly were now mere scars, and his leg was entirely whole.

The dark kynaz held out the fragment of skull, preparing to pour more healing blood over the remaining cut on his arm. Merodach swatted her, knocking her backwards. She sprawled limply for a second, and then she righted herself with the same puppet awkwardness as before. She looked around, found the fragment of skull, and staggered upright to go back to the fountain again.

"How _dare _you," Merodach said. He tried to get up, but his legs failed him.

The other kynaz came back with another shallow bowlful of blood. "You are no krynvelhat," she said. "Not the one I would have wished. But you are strong, and you are clever. You will do. Drink."

"No," Merodach said, but it was too late. She had healed him enough to prevent his death. That debt was enough to sink him for many incarnations to come. He felt it clinging to him with the fervency humans generally reserve for love and loathing. Merodach snarled at his fate, but there was no point in resisting further. He held out his hand for the bowl, and drank. The kynaz took it from his unresisting hand and filled it again. After the second one he managed to get upright. The dark kynaz watched him with that same lack of affect. He took a couple of weak steps to the fountain and leaned over the spray, drinking as fast as he could swallow.

When he turned away at last, wiping his mouth, he could stand without trouble. The dark kynaz stood with her weight to one side, head and arms hanging as if she could not hold them up. She still watched him, dark eyes behind the wispy fringe of dark hair.

Merodach retrieved his mace without comment. He looked around for the breastplate. It lay against the wall beside his greave. It was completely whole, free even from the ordinary dents of long wear. He armored himself again before he turned his attention to the one he was sure he would learn to hate.

"I could kill you," he said.

"You will not," said the other. "You hold your honor too dear." She crossed the bloody floor back to her corner, which was undoubtedly the cleanest part of the room, and flopped down again. She did not sit down or kneel; she simply dropped as if shot by an arrow. One curly horn bounced against a wall, and then her head sank onto one shoulder.

Merodach sighed as he went to put on his armor again. "Then name the enemy I now serve."

"I am Sodrinye," said the dark kynaz. Her voice was losing volume as he listened. "I am not your enemy. Go and serve your Lord, and return to me again."

"What is wrong with you?" Merodach said.

"I am a Sleeper," said Sodrinye. "I was born so." And then she closed her eyes and said nothing more.

"You cannot stay here," Merodach said. "Others will look for Belteshazzar."

There was no answer from Sodrinye the Sleeper. Merodach finished buckling his greave and went to squat in front of her. She was entirely still, only the regular rise and fall of her chest indicating she still lived. Merodach prodded her shoulder with one finger. Nothing happened. The soft-looking skin was as stiff as a corpse in rigor, if entirely too warm.

_I believe I now understand what befell Belteshazzar. A mage who could summon three daedra at once could take him to pieces without trouble, _he thought. _If she were awake. _He looked around. The chamber that had held the two clannfear was small, but the doorway was unobtrusive. Merodach tugged experimentally on Sodrinye's wrist. There was no response. Her wrist and arm were as hard as her shoulder, though she was obviously without much muscle. Merodach consigned that paradox to a later time and moved to hoist her over his shoulder.

She was surprisingly heavy. Merodach carried her into the smaller room and slung her down in a corner. She lay where he put her, though the position did not look particularly comfortable.

"I do not care about your comfort," Merodach told her. She did not seem to hear. The room also held one of the Punished, a red sac held onto its rack by stringy tendons. It expanded and contracted regularly, like a heart beating. Merodach dragged it into the center of the room so that its shadow fell across the Sleeper. She should be entirely invisible from the doorway.

It was as much as he was prepared to do. Merodach turned to go.

---

Mishael was still waiting at the bottom of the ramp.

"Hail," said Merodach. The other kynaz turned to watch him approach. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Merodach's repaired armor.

"Hail," said Mishael. "I am impressed, brother caitiff."

"Without cause, I assure you," Merodach said, smiling tightly. "I must tell the kynreeve of Belteshazzar's death. You will pardon me."

"Yes, of course," said Mishael. He shot Merodach a sly glance. "Whatever became of the kynval's toy?"

"I assume his summonings consumed her, as they did him," Merodach said, lying without a second thought. "These walls thirst at all times. The room will cleanse itself soon enough."

"It is even so," said Mishael.

"I believe you said you had a question for me, brother caitiff," said Merodach.

Mishael grinned, showing his jagged yellow teeth. He tapped the hilt of his longsword. "I believe you have answered it. You are above my level. I must bide my time, or choose another soul."

"I will be honored by the challenge," said Merodach. "Should you prefer not to wait, I understand Abednego has been growing careless of late." He turned and walked away, putting his back to the other kynaz without a second thought. Mishael was not like Belteshazzar. He would never attack from behind. Even with that level of scruple, his longsword skill would probably raise him above the rank of caitiff soon.

_I probably will not be a caitiff much longer, either, _Ebel-Merodach thought dryly. _Whatever the Sleeper plans for me, I cannot imagine I will enjoy it._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: One book ingame does indicate that the word "demon" is an incorrect term for daedra, but the book itself is academic and dry enough that everyone in the Imperial Legion probably hasn't read it. Previous chapters are now corrected to reflect that "kynaz" is the correct singular of "kyn." Oops._

Chapter Four

Merodach was busy for some time after that, in the sense that time has any meaning to Dremora. The kynreeve was not pleased to hear his news, but was not really surprised either. The balance of these two things left Ebel-Merodach guarding a Reaper's Sprawl for a while, a tall, narrow tower with a caged human at the top of it. This was fairly dull. Merodach was not yet of a rank where torture was required of him, and he did not for the most part relish it as a pastime in its own right.

The mortal was of some passing interest. Merodach had seen the species a few times before, among other races of Nirn, but most of them had already been dead and dismembered. He had never been summoned by a human mage. The parts of the prisoner's skin that were visible under the grime were pale, and the top of his skull was hairless, with gray streamers down the sides. He was smaller than a kynaz, but his body showed signs of having survived combat before he was captured. For the most part he stood at the exact center of his cage, habitual position of prisoners accustomed to being poked through the bars. He gave Merodach one evaluating glance, composed of equal parts wariness and contempt, and after that resumed scanning his surroundings mechanically. Every so often he would turn a neat forty-five degrees, as if the angle mattered to him.

Merodach paced the upper level with its transparent floor, sometimes staring down at the spiral ramp beneath. A pack of clannfear had been trapped at the bottom of the shaft around the corpse masher, and they roamed in restless circles with him.

Eventually he came to look at the human again. The man tensed, obviously prepared to lunge back against the bars if necessary, but he did not move. The bars of the cage did not seem enchanted. Merodach could not see any freakish trait that might have merited the keeping of a creature of Nirn.

"Why are you here, mortal?" Merodach said at last. He knew only one mortal tongue, and his accent was thick, but he was apparently understood. The human spat on him. Merodach laughed once, wiped off his armor, and resumed his circuit. It was not by accident that Lord Dagon's invasion failed. The human stared after him for a few moments, then resumed his vigil.

Eventually another caitiff came to relieve him. He made his report briefly and went at once back to the Corridors of Dark Salvation.

---

The atrium with the two fountains was almost clean, a thick slurry of blood still clinging only to one or two of the channels in the floor. Merodach had hoped, however slightly, that the Sleeper might be gone. She was not. He found her in exactly the same position he had left her, slumped in the corner of the small chamber and quite visibly still respiring.

He shoved the Punished aside and crouched in front of her. "I return, loathsome one," Merodach said. For a moment he thought she had not heard him, and then her eyes opened suddenly. In the darkness of the closetlike space, the center of each eye was shot through with glowing threads.

"Not loathsome enough," she said, raising her head slowly. "Else I would not have had to kill Belteshazzar."

"Do not confound me with that worm," Merodach said.

"You did not stop him," observed Sodrinye calmly.

"He was my kynval. I had not the right." Merodach smiled grimly. "Do not think I would have spared you. I would have killed you, that is all."

"And freed me thus from an incarnation in which I have found nothing to desire," returned the dark kyn. One hand flopped in a weird parody of a throwing-away gesture. "But there is no end to the circle. A Sleeper cast out will be a Sleeper returned. Not blade nor spell nor poison can free me from this thrall."

"Nor I from yours, you mean," said Merodach.

"Perhaps, Ebel-Merodach," said Sodrinye. "In the full order of time."

"I did not tell you my name."

"No," said Sodrinye. "But I know it. I know also where you have been today. Who is the mortal in the cage?"

Merodach stared at her for a long moment, disturbed by this apparent clairvoyance. It was very dimly possible she could have heard it from another kyn passing by, or plucked it from his mind as krynvelhat might do with a summoned. He doubted it. He had never heard that a summoned mind could be reached without its knowledge. Sodrinye's eyelids fluttered once in the silence, then remained resolutely open.

"I do not know his name," Merodach said at last. "Only that he was captured by the previous Lord, and that he is a creature of some courage."

"Find out," Sodrinye said. "Without torture. We will require him."

"We?" said Merodach, but Sodrinye's eyes were closed again. He swore silently and bitterly and went on his way.

---

The kyn who was tasked with guarding the Reaper's Sprawl was not at all sorry to see Merodach. He barely had to lie to have her hurrying from the room. Guarding an outer tower would always be a chore.

Their brief conversation was in Kyn, but the human's eyes moved between them as they spoke. When the other kynaz was gone, Merodach went up to the cage. He stopped a few feet away, not close enough that he could have easily seized the man through the bars.

"You understand our tongue," Merodach said. "Not an easy thing, for a mortal creature."

The human stared at him.

"But I will speak to you in yours," Merodach said. "What are you called?"

"I won't give my name to a filthy demon," said the human. "Not in Cyrodilic and not in whatever-that-is you were speaking."

"This is a wise decision," Merodach said. "You have no way to know that I am not krynv – not a conjurer. And yet I must know it. One whom I serve may have a use for you."

"Then this one whom you serve can come down here himself," retorted the mortal. He turned on his regular rotation, putting him facing partly away from Merodach. This put his bony ribcage on roughly Merodach's eye level. "If you had permission to hurt me, you'd be doing it already. Go away."

"The previous Citadel Lord must have thought you were of some importance," Merodach said. "You are alive and - " Merodach sought a word. "- relatively whole. I wonder how long that will last, now that the Citadel has fallen."

The human snorted and turned again, putting his back to the caitiff. "I'm not whole, demon. The best thing that's happened to me in a year was when the gates closed. The next best thing will be when I die."

"That will depend," said Merodach. "There are many here who would not kill you as cleanly as would I."

The man whirled abruptly to face Merodach, abandoning his ceremonial turning. He seized the cage and leaned forward, clannfear-beak nose thrust between the bars. "There is no clean death here," he said. "Not for me. Not for any mortal thing. I won't tell you my name. But I will tell you what I've done. The first great gate opened in the city of Kvatch. And the sigil stone that opened it was here. Some Khajiit with no tail fought her way through a whole pack of you to get to me, and then she couldn't get the bloody godsdamned door open. I told her where to get the key to the Keep, demon. I didn't make it back. But she took your sigil and closed your gate. It was your first loss in a long string of losses."

Merodach contemplated this for a moment. "I see," he said. "The Lord was saving you for some protracted torture, and then he was lost in Nirn and you were left here."

The man stood back. "That's right," he said. Silence held between them for a long minute. Off in the distance, a kyn laughed, the echo redoubled against the inner walls of the keep. The ceiling of the Reaper's Sprawl was open. Red clouds revolved far overhead.

"Keep your name," Merodach said. "I am called Ebel-Merodach. I am a caitiff in my own clan, second to the lowest of all castes."

The man folded his arms. "And that's how you drew this guard duty? Or are you just a naturally good interrogator? You're the first one I've said more than two words to in... Gods, who knows." He jerked his head irritably. "No keeping track of weeks and months in this place."

"My duty here was finished when you spat on me," Merodach said, brushing aside the fact that he had no idea what weeks or months were supposed to be. "One to whom I owe a debt wishes me here. We will speak again."

"I'll be right here," said the human dryly.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: for those who have noticed a difference in capitalization, it's not an error – I'm assuming a difference between "kyn" and "Kyn" similar to the way one might say "men" for a group of individuals and "Men" for the entire human race._

Chapter Five

"Wake up, ugly one," said Merodach. ""If you wish to see the mortal yourself, now is the time." He had been less careful moving the Punished this time. One side of it hit his knee every time it pulsed.

"Yes," said Sodrinye, slowly opening her eyes. "The corridors are clear. Why?"

"Mishael has challenged Abednego for his office," said Merodach. It did not occur to him to say _and his life, _because it did not occur to him that anything else could be assumed. The concept of "first blood" was not very compelling to an effectively immortal race, and "surrender" simply not an acceptable idea to a kynaz. "Everyone who is not on guard duty has gone to watch." That was not so very many. Even now, the Citadel was sparsely occupied and amusement was scarce. The kyn prisoners had not lasted long at the hands of churls and caitiffs, who were mostly not very refined in their torture techniques.

"You will have to carry me," Sodrinye said. "It will take too long for me to walk."

"I knew it," Merodach said. He leaned forward and seized her around the waist and slung her over his shoulder. He did not do it with much care. He disliked having to touch her at all, and he knew now that her skin would not easily bruise. Trapped inside a skin as stiff as bone, muscles atrophied from inaction, it was a wonder she could stand upright at all. He supposed it was too much to hope for that she would grow fat from the blood fountain and crush her organs from the inside.

He went carefully at first, watching and listening as he tried to move quietly under the Sleeper's weight. After the second time he paused at a juncture of corridors Sodrinye said from behind him, "Why do you stop?"

"Your debtsworn is trying to keep you alive, loathsome one," growled Merodach. "This will not be possible if we are seen."

One dangling elbow bumped into his armored back. "Now we are invisible," Sodrinye said. "Go faster, if you can."

"If I _can_?" Merodach said.

There was a pointed silence from behind him. He walked faster, rumbling under his breath. It did not take long to reach the walkway to the Reaper's Sprawl. Merodach nudged the door open with one boot and started out onto the narrow, arching stone bridge between the main keep and the thin tower. If the dark kynaz had any comment about the view, hanging head-down with the abyss beneath her, she gave no sign.

Merodach reached the other door at last. This one he opened carefully with his free hand, to avoid unbalancing himself. Then it was a mere matter of hauling a hundred and forty pounds of dead weight up a slippery slope to the glassy platform at the top of the Sprawl. He glanced down once. The clannfear at the bottom of the shaft were all in amongst the spikes of the corpse masher, staring upward. Merodach spat at them and turned to walk with measured tread the last few steps to the top.

He dropped Sodrinye a safe distance from the cage. He couldn't see her, of course, but but one curly horn made a _clink _noise as her head bounced against the floor. The prisoner turned quickly in the cage, eyes moving unerringly toward the sound. "Show yourself," he said.

There was a noise that sounded something like _bamf, _and Sodrinye snapped into view in front of Merodach, sitting half-crumpled on the floor. As he watched, she gathered herself and lurched upright.

Merodach observed the prisoner curiously. He'd heard that some mortals were protective of their women, a trait largely incomprehensible to him. Dagon knew, _Merodach _wouldn't have been dragging around the awful little Sleeper had he not been debtsworn.

The mortal's eyes narrowed momentarily, a movement so brief and so slight that it might easily have been missed. "What's this, demon? A new strategy? Or just some entertainment?"

Merodach looked down at the swaying, ragged kynaz beside him. "You have no idea of what you speak."

"Which of us is in a cage?" said the mortal.

"Oh, we are both caged, or I would be seeking my way through the void even now," Merodach said. Sodrinye raised her head slowly. Near-black eyes regarded the prisoner. They were very large, and pale-rimmed in a way not at all ordinary in a kynaz – not, in fact, unlike the look of the human's. She blinked in the red daylight from the open roof.

Sodrinye took a step toward the cage, then another. Merodach seized her by the shoulder. She stopped.

"Do not increase my shame by causing your own death," Merodach said. "He is not so weak he could not harm one so feeble as you."

"He will not harm me, and I need to see him closely," Sodrinye said. "My eyes, too, are feeble."

"You are warned," Merodach said, and released her. He went to stand near the cage in hopes that the human would move to the other side of it. The prisoner fixed him with a flat stare and remained where he was. Merodach's brief conversation with the Sleeper had been in the Kyntongue, but Merodach suspected he had understood at least part of it.

This suspicion was confirmed when the mortal said, "I don't see why you think I won't." His speech in the Kyntongue was accented but discernible. Sodrinye reached out a hand to the bars, testing their stability, then leaned her shoulder against them carefully. With this accomplished, she let her head fall back and looked up at the man. Peripherally, Merodach saw her shoulders move as she sighed, but most of his attention was on the mortal.

"The Kyn neither pity nor spare the weak," Sodrinye said. "Some mortals do. I think you are one such."

"_Some _mortals, yes," said the man. He edged back slightly, shooting an ironic glance at Merodach, and squatted so that he was close to the Sleeper's eye level. "You know something about us. Most of your kind wouldn't know enough to qualify that."

"_Most _of us do not care," Merodach muttered. Both of them ignored him.

"As I sleep I see many things," Sodrinye said. "The Kyntongue has no word for it. In your language they are _dreams, _Menien Goneld."

The man stood up suddenly, stiff as if he had been struck. Merodach jerked Sodrinye away from the cage as he interposed himself between her and it. She did not resist him, nor react as he hissed over his shoulder, "Little fool! This is a fighting man. If you do not want me to have to kill him, do not toy with him."

Sodrinye steadied herself against Merodach's back. He resisted a strong urge to swat her as she moved back around him. "I will do him no harm, body or mind," Sodrinye said. She stepped back around Merodach, leaning on him as she went. "It is as I told you. We need him."

"Need me for what?" demanded the man called Menien Goneld. He had remained self-possessed through everything so far, but the loss of his closely-guarded name had visibly shaken him. He stood taut as a bowstring, practically vibrating.

"We are going to Nirn," said the Sleeper.

The ground seemed to have opened up under Merodach's feet. "What?" he said.

"Your invasion failed," Menien Goneld said firmly, as one who needs powerfully to believe in something. "There are no more gates."

"It is possible to move between planes without a gate," Sodrinye replied.

"_What?" _said Merodach. Once again, both the prisoner and the Sleeper seemed to be ignoring the armed kynaz – one because he appeared more or less stunned, and the other customarily impassive.

"It will not be easy," Sodrinye said. "It is possible I will fail, and lose us in the void. But I have been hoarding magicka for this a very long time as you would count it."

"Doesn't mean a thing," Goneld said. "Maybe three mages in the whole world've ever been good enough to try that. None of them came back."

"Nor do I intend to return here," Sodrinye said.

"Impossible," Merodach said, having recovered himself enough to do other than snarl inarticulately. "And when we die in Nirn – because I assure you any mortals who find us _will _kill us - "

"I would," put in Goneld.

" - We will be lost," Merodach said. "The voice of Dagon is not heard in the voidstreams. You know this."

"He's right," Menien Goneld said. "Much as I hate to be agreeing with one of _you_. If there's only two of you, you've got no chance. You won't pass for human, mer or beast with horns on your forehead, girl."

Merodach laughed harshly and entirely without humor. "_Girl_," he said, repeating the Cyrodilic word.

"In your terms, I am as old as you are," Sodrinye said. "Though that is no age at all to one of us, perhaps ten souls if my own count can be trusted."

Merodach considered the fate of Belteshazzar and added that to the possible reasons for caging a kynaz who was mostly unconscious anyway. "I am sure it can," he said.

"I am Sodrinye the Sleeper," the dark kynaz said. Her tone was still high, flat, unvarying. "This is my fifth incarnation – my fifth body – and it is the oldest age I have ever reached. In this body alone I have been beaten, caged and raped, Menien Goneld. Merodach has only two incarnations, and twenty-five hundred souls in this one. He is cautious, moderate for a kynaz. And he would gladly have killed me had I not placed him in my debt by saving his life."

"I assure you, I am contemplating it even now," said Merodach, by this time dwelling lovingly on the thought of wringing her thick-skinned neck. He'd never told her his age, either.

"Each time I return through the void it is to no purpose," Sodrinye said. "Those to whom I have spoken say my chances in Nirn are better than they are here." She was leaning against the cage bars again, head drooping. "The same is not true of this caitiff, of course. I would leave him if I had any choice."

"So what do you want me for?" Goneld said, eyeing her with a disturbed look that Merodach immediately recognized.

"To your own people you are already dead," Sodrinye said quietly. Her voice was level, but it was losing volume. "We will need a guide. That plane is very different from this one, and Merodach will have enough to contend with."

Goneld sank to one knee, looking at her closely. "You're not like him," he said. "What are you, exactly?"

"Merodach will tell you," said Sodrinye.

Merodach rolled his eyes. "And what am I to do with you? You have waited too long. We will never make it back now." He reached out to gather her up as she slumped.

"The shaft," Sodrinye said faintly.

"The shaft is full of clannfear, foolish krynvelhat."

"I know," she said. "Do it."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I don't know that I've seen Dremora summon other Dremora ingame, but they can certainly summon Xivilai, and I've seen skeletons summon other skeletons._

Chapter 6

Merodach swore viciously all the way down the ramp. It ended in a narrow circle of walkway with a lever on one wall. Merodach dropped the Sleeper in a heap so that he could pull it. The rusty, bloodstained platform rose upward with a creak, impelled by the enormous drive shaft beneath it. The clannfear watched it rise.

Merodach nudged Sodrinye onto the platform with one boot. She hooked a hand into one of its circular holes as it started down again, triggered by her weight. Merodach shook his head, watching the corpse masher descend noisily back toward the spikes meant to fill the holes.

About an inch above the top of the spikes, Sodrinye let go and rolled off to one side. She dropped the last ten feet or so and landed with a _thump _that Merodach heard even from the top of the shaft. She rolled to one side bonelessly, and then she was hidden by a rapidly converging crowd of leathery bodies.

All movement stopped. The six lesser daedra stood at quivering attention, tails straight out behind them. One dark hand rose up out of their midst. Sodrinye groped along a motionless creature's head until she grasped the horn on the end of its beaked nose, then levered herself calmly upright. She spoke, lips moving in words Merodach could not hear. The clannfear shook themselves and moved away, resuming their endless pacing. Sodrinye stumbled out of Merodach's view under the rim of the walkway.

Merodach watched for a while. The clannfear did not once pause again, or make any sign that they knew Sodrinye was still there. Eventually he said to himself, "Dagon's bloody fists," and turned and stamped back up the slope to the platform.

Menien Goneld raised his head as Merodach entered his view. He had evidently been looking down the shaft as well.

"What in every burning Hell was that?" he said.

"I have no idea," Merodach said. "It is not a usual krynv – mage trick. Nor do I know what she wished me to tell you. She has told _me_ almost nothing."

"She said she was a Sleeper," the mortal said. "I thought you demons didn't sleep."

"For the most part, we do not, if I understand the word in your filthy tongue," Merodach said. "Yet she is seldom conscious enough to speak. She seems to possess some form of... I am not sure of the word. In the Kyntongue it is _ebedan, _foresight without the shedding of blood."

"She's a natural diviner?" said Goneld.

"Perhaps. She is a mage of some power, while she is aware of her surroundings. The rest of the time she can no more defend herself than one dead."

Goneld glanced downward. "But she's still not getting eaten."

"So I see," Merodach said.

"I don't see why you're telling me this," Goneld said. "You know she's never going to make it to Nirn."

"Silence," Merodach said. "Damaris is returning."

The footsteps from the walkway outside drew nearer, and then his fellow caitiff shoved the door open and entered the Reaper's Sprawl. Like most female kyn, she carried a bow slung at her back for enemies in the field and a long belt dagger for those closer to home.

"Hail, Ebel-Merodach," she said cheerily. She was accounted among the more attractive of the caitiffs, with scars all up the side of her face and neck from spellfire. One might question the provenance of such a perfect set of marks in a place where they were visible in full armor, especially since both her eyes were intact. One would not, however, be wise to make this inquiry of Damaris. Besides, everyone in the unit occupying the Citadel had seen the duel in which she acquired them.

"Hail, Damaris," Merodach said, eyeing her with cool appreciation. "How went the fight?"

"Brief," she returned. "Mishael is a cautious kynaz. He would not challenge one whom he could not defeat." She grinned, fingering her dagger hilt. "And when he finds his way back, Abednego will not easily rise above churl again."

"Indeed." Merodach grinned back. He shared the joke. Everyone in the unit _also _knew Abednego had once insulted Damaris, and she had been finding ways to make his life harder every since. "I am somewhat surprised you allowed Mishael to challenge him first."

She shrugged. "Now that he is gone, I cannot torment him further until he returns." Damaris shot Merodach a speculative look. "I am sure I will grow very bored between now and when our new kynval arrives."

Merodach did not get a chance to answer, because then he heard footsteps on the ramp outside. The door creaked open to admit a kynaz in full armor, except for the helm at her belt. Daedric armor looks exactly like Dremora armor in every way. The difference is felt rather than seen. Merodach perceived it easily. This kynaz had worn her armor for so long that it had become, in some sense, part of her. Her hair was cropped very short, probably a necessity of the neat grid of scars that crisscrossed her skull and her visible face and neck. _She has been the prisoner of another clan. _Sometimes, though not invariably, scars that were earned shortly before death would return with the next incarnation. These must surely be of that type. Even if a prisoner of war managed to escape, her own clan would never trust her again.

"Hail, kynval," Merodach said. It was not a guess. There was nothing else she could possibly be. He kept his face impassive, hiding any admiration for her scars that might suggest he could be manipulated rather than commanded.

The other kynaz looked briefly from Merodach to Damaris. "Which of you is on duty?"

"I am," Merodach said.

"Out," the kynval said to Damaris. The caitiff bowed her head briefly and departed. The kynval turned back to Merodach. They looked at each other for a moment. "You are the caitiff Ebel-Merodach," said the kynval.

"Yes, kynval," said Merodach.

"The one who found Belteshazzar," said the kynval.

"Yes, kynval."

"And is his soul to your count?" she said.

"No, kynval," Merodach said promptly. "He was torn by lesser daedra. I nearly was as well." From the corner of one eye, he saw Menien Goneld had resumed his regular quarter-turns inside his cage, but he had no doubt the prisoner was still listening.

"So I hear," said the kynval. She folded her arms. "But that is not true."

Merodach did not rise to this. After a moment the kynval said,

"I knew Belteshazzar before he was assigned here. He could hardly have summoned one scamp, and even he could have defended himself from such a creature."

Merodach shrugged. "He was all over the walls when I found him, kynval. The room contained a daedroth and two clannfear. It seems unlikely they could have wandered in from outside."

"No, the outer door is kept locked," the kynval said. "Nor does it seem likely you could have summoned three such yourself. And your injuries when Mishael found you certainly were not self-inflicted."

"I have not the means of inflicting the marks of daedroth jaws on myself in the absence of a daedroth, no," Merodach said dryly. The kynval raised an eyebrow at this borderline insubordination. Merodach did not lower his gaze.

"You are old for a caitiff," she said.

"Yes, kynval."

"How old?" she demanded.

"Twenty-five hundred souls, kynval," Merodach said.

The kynval considered this. Merodach was fairly sure he knew what she was thinking. If he had indeed killed Belteshazzar, yet refused to count that soul or claim his rank, it would be because he had not done the killing by demonstrably honorable means. And one who would kill someone else of his own clan for a reason unconnected with soul count was likely to be dangerous to his next superior, particularly if he was old enough to be a physical threat.

This particular kynval did not strike him as stupid, however. And it was equally obvious that Merodach was both not a krynvelhat and could not have gone from outside the Citadel (where clannfear and daedroths might reasonably be found) to the Rending Halls while injured as he had been when Mishael found him.

It was not entirely impossible, from those circumstances, to deduce Belteshazzar's death at the hands of a very powerful mage.

Merodach wondered whether the kynval would conclude he was an accomplice, or merely that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He supposed what had actually happened was unlikely enough that she would not guess at it.

He was only partly wrong. It was not a guess.

"Caitiff," said the kynval. "Do you know why we occupy this Citadel?"

"No," Merodach said. "We found little treasure here, and its lands are not desirable."

"But you did find a cage," said the kynval.

"Belteshazzar found it, yes," Merodach said. She could have, and probably had, learned that from the krynvelhat caitiffs who had examined it. Enough other members of the unit had seen the dark kynaz that Merodach was not at all surprised by the next question.

"And you saw what was inside it," said the kynval.

"Yes, kynval," Merodach said. "There was a kynaz inside."

"And what manner of kynaz was she?" said the kynval.

Merodach shrugged again. "Unconscious. Very ugly. Thin. I assumed she was ill or cursed."

"And you knew that Belteshazzar took her for a plaything," the kynval said.

"As was his right as ranking officer, yes," Merodach said. The kynval snarled suddenly, hand moving to the pommel of her belt dagger.

"_Worthless fools!_ I should kill you where you stand. I would kill Belteshazzar, were he not dead already. Do you not know what you have permitted him to do?"

"No, kynval," Merodach said. His confusion was only partly feigned. He was beginning to have an inkling, however. He stood perfectly still in the face of the kynval's anger. To Merodach's practiced eye, she had five thousand souls if she'd a single one. And if she did kill him, he would not be free from his debt. He would merely be a debtsworn thrown back to the churl caste with no souls to his name, all his work wasted, and since he would certainly coalesce at the Citadel of his first incarnation, he would have to find his way all the way back here as well.

"Our Lord's spies learned that the master of this Citadel had in his possession a great treasure indeed," said the kynval. "A kynaz who could see the future, stolen in war from another clan. A powerful krynvelhat who is seldom aware long enough to speak. Do you take my meaning _now_, caitiff? Belteshazzar had orders to find and preserve the cage. He apparently assumed that meant he was free to do as he wished with what was inside it."

"No one has seen this kynaz since Belteshazzar's death," Merodach said.

"I know," growled the kynval. "His death at the claws of creatures he could not summon. The Sleeper could have done so easily. No doubt she somehow made her escape while _you _were busy bleeding on the floor, caitiff."

"Then she cannot have gone far," Merodach said. "Not if she cannot remain conscious for long." He pretended not to hear the sound of the corpse masher ascending behind him. The kynval did not appear to notice.

"It will make no difference to you," said the kynval. "Perhaps you have not been deliberately negligent, but you have had enough hand in this disaster that you cannot be allowed to live." She drew her bow and an arrow in one smooth motion. "And you have caused enough annoyance for _me _that your death will not be quick. Would you like to guess what is on this arrow, caitiff?"

"No," Merodach said. "All things considered, I think I would not."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Insolent wretch," said the kynval. And then she shot him. Merodach was not at all surprised that the arrow punched right through the right shoulder of his armor and out at the back. The sheer force of the blow staggered him before he ever felt the pain.

He righted himself and drew his mace, but he could feel his arms growing weaker. His feet were already numb. _Harrada. Of course. _The kynval watched without slacking her hold on the bow until he dropped the mace. Then she put it up, but did not come any closer until the creeping numbness reached Merodach's knees and he fell. He knelt hunched over on the translucent floor of the upper platform, watching his own blood leak out around the arrow's shaft. The platform of the corpse masher was up, hiding the clannfear beneath.

"You cannot kill me," he said. He saw the kick coming from the corner of his eye, but was too slow to dodge it. The kynval's boot impacted squarely on his pierced shoulder, and the numbness there dispersed as if by magic. He bared his teeth at the pain. It did not occur to him to roll with the blow. That would have been too much like yielding.

"And why is thatworm?" said the kynval. "Take your time. You have a few minutes before the poison paralyzes your lungs and you suffocate." She drew her belt knife.

"I do not belong solely to my Lord any longer," said Merodach.

"And why should that prevent me from ending your miserable life, caitiff?" said the kynval. "Particularly since that makes you a traitor?"

"I am debtsworn to Sodrinye the Sleeper," Merodach said, with a certain vicious satisfaction. He watched the light of realization slowly dawn the instant before a massive static charge came out of nowhere and blasted the kynval some thirty feet into the wall. "Nowhere" coalesced into the ragged form of the dark kynaz. Sodrinye watched, swaying as if she lacked the strength to stand, as the kynval started to rise. Then she raised one hand. A fireball as large as Merodach's entire body took form in front of her fingers and flew to the kynval while the officer was still trying to get up. It struck with a heavy _boom. _The entire Sprawl shook. Merodach, now unable to hold himself upright, fell over.

Lying with his face against the cold floor, he could see where the kynval had been. There was nothing left but a drift of ash. Even the daedric armor was gone.

"You're in for it now," said the voice of Menien Goneld behind them. "Everybody within half a mile must've heard that."

"We must go," Sodrinye said. She collapsed next to Merodach, reaching for the arrow. He was about to ask what she thought she was going to do when it suddenly vanished. Blood flowed freely from the wound, barely visible against his armor. Sodrinye touched one finger to it and then to her tongue. "Harrada," she said. "Nothing more." Then she laid her hand on Merodach's shoulder. She blinked once. Merodach jerked as power shot through his entire body, violent as a shock charge and scarcely less painful.

But when it was over, the wound was gone. Merodach realized abruptly that he was again able to feel his fingers and toes. "We are undone, woman," he said as he stood up. He seized Sodrinye by one shoulder and hoisted her onto her feet.

"Not yet," she said. She turned and went to lean on the cage bars, far too slowly for Merodach's liking. "Menien Goneld, you must make your choice now. It is unlikely you will have the chance to leave this cage again."

"We're going to die," Goneld said. "But at least it'll be quick. Do what you're going to do, demon."

Sodrinye reached out toward him between the bars. "Then give me your hand."

Goneld looked at her for a long second, ignoring Merodach's very close scrutiny, before he slowly held out his own hand. Sodrinye surely could not have much in the way of a grip, but he did look slightly surprised at how hard her palm was. She held out the other hand to Merodach. "Your arm," she said. "You may need your weapon. I cannot control where we arrive within the continent."

"Wonderful," Goneld muttered. Merodach proffered his left arm as he drew his mace with the right. He supposed grimly that he was about to have an experience few kyn had ever had. _Not that many have ever truly _desired _complete annihilation._

The hairs along his spine rose as the charge of magicka in the air shot suddenly far above normal background. Sodrinye the Sleeper still stood leaning against the bars. Her eyes were closed, but her expression was otherwise undisturbed – because, Merodach began to suspect, she was partly elsewhere, inside whatever place contained the things she had called _dreams _in that strange other tongue.

The platform under his feet began to vibrate. Ebel-Merodach, veteran of the destruction of more than one citadel, kept his balance. Menien Goneld fell to his knees, but did not lose his grip on the Sleeper's hand.

"Fair warning, sister," said Sodrinye's voice, high and cold, as everything went dark. "I am coming."

---

At that same moment, a priest in the great Chapel at Bruma twitched suddenly upright. The others present – there were many people praying at this time of day - stared at him. He was a stolid and a tranquil man ordinarily, not given to any kind of sudden movement, but he had risen from his knees as if levitating. He stared at the Altar of the Nine for a long moment, and an alarmed priestess realized his shoulders were heaving.

"Brother Varen?" said Sister Laure. She rose from the pew, where she had been trying to give comfort to a Nord widow, and stepped forward. The stocky priest did not seem to hear her. For a long moment the rasp of his breathing was loud; and then the sound dropped away suddenly, the line of his shoulders smoothed, and he turned from the Altar.

"Please, forgive me," he said calmly, and walked down into the Undercroft. Laure hurried after him, avoiding the curious glances of worshippers. She was relatively new to the Chapel, but she had already learned how unusual it was for this particular Imperial to show any strong emotion at all.

"Brother, what's happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Sister," he said. He did not turn around as he said it. She watched as he went to a small cupboard on the wall and extracted a satchel. "I'm very sorry if I gave you any alarm."

"Where are you going?" said Laure. "Are you about Arkay's business? Shall I come with you?" Her heart leapt into her throat. She had not yet been called upon to perform any Rite more dramatic than the laying to rest of the Nord's dead husband, who had been quite old and died of entirely natural causes.

"Thank you," The priest said. "But I'm afraid this is rather my own business than the Light Bearer's, except in the sense that it is an unclosed circle." He looked into the satchel, nodded once, and slung it over one thick shoulder. "I do not think anyone will ask after me while I'm away."

"When will you be back?" said Sister Laure.

"I may be some while," said Tychicus Varen.

---

There was no sensation of movement, no apparent lost time. The ground stopped moving very suddenly. Merodach flinched as a painfully brilliant light flared up around him, and then he looked down at the ground and realized it was green. There was a soft _thump _as the Sleeper fell over again, but this was hardly worthy of remark. Merodach shaded his eyes with his free hand and forced himself to look around in the unwholesome glare of an alien day.

Some sort of grass stretched out around him in every direction. Most of it was one shade of green or another, perhaps the least appropriate color Merodach could imagine for a plant. There were larger green-topped plants off in the distance which he could not identify, covering what seemed to be the beginning of hilly terrain.

"You'd better look after your friend, demon," said Menien Goneld. Merodach glanced sideways in time to see him get to his feet. "I'm not sure she's breathing."

"She is not my _friend, _mortal," said Merodach, but the weight of his debt dragged him to his knees. He did not sheathe his mace, but he had to shuck one gauntlet to check the pulse in the Sleeper's throat. If her chest was rising and falling, it was so subtle as to escape his notice.

Goneld was staring around him as if he could not believe his eyes. "Dibella's tits," he said. "She really _did _do it."

"She lives yet," Merodach said. The beat of blood under the skin was weak and thready, but it was there. He was more relieved than he would have cared to admit. If he was going to be trapped in Nirn, it was far better to be trapped here with a mage who was, incidentally, also a fellow kynaz (however freakish and deformed) and not another of these incomprehensible mortals.

Merodach looked fully at the human. "And so the question remains. Is there some form of honor among _your _kind, Menien Goneld?"

"Ha," said Goneld. "That's funny, coming from one of _you._" He looked around again. "Though I can't say I'm sure just where we are. It's too flat to be the West Weald, and I don't see any flowers. We must be East of the City somewhere."

"What is _east_?" said Ebel-Merodach. The mortal had spoken in the Kyntongue, but the words _West Weald _and _East _were in Cyrodilic.

"I don't know how you'd say it," Goneld said. He shaded his eyes as he stared off toward the foothills. "_East _is toward the _sun - "_

"Another meaningless word," growled Merodach.

"I can't help it that your godsdamned plane doesn't have one," Goneld snapped back. "It's right up there. Look." He waved a hand at the blinding sky. Merodach risked a glimpse upward, squinting his eyes nearly shut. There was a glaring round something up there, but it left stinging afterimages to try and look at it.

"What is this?" Merodach said. He turned his eyes away from it, resolved not to let Goneld blind him.

"As far as I know, it's a hole in the sky," Goneld said. "Supposedly you can see Oblivion through it, and that's where the light comes from. It's the same with the moons."

Ebel-Merodach firmly rejected the word _moons _as irrelevant. "Do you or do you not know where we are?"

"I think I do," Goneld said. "Pick up your whatever-she-is and start walking. We've got to find cover before dark."

All of the words were familiar, but Merodach was puzzled to hear him speak of darknessas something chronological. This, too, was irrelevant for the moment. He sheathed his mace, picked up Sodrinye the Sleeper, and slung her over one shoulder. The ground seemed to sink slightly underfoot at each step. He glanced behind them as they started toward the foothills.

"We are leaving a trail," Merodach said. Bent grass stretched out behind them.

"It'll disappear pretty quickly," Goneld said. "Most of the grass will stand back up again. Not all of it, with those boots you're wearing." He made a face. "I'll have to find or make some shoes soon. Bare feet won't take this for long."

"So we can be tracked," Merodach said, ignoring the latter part of this. Sodrinye's right horn kept bumping into his lower back.

"By a professional or an Argonian, yes," Goneld said. "By someone looking for us specifically. Not by just anyone."

"What is an Argonian?" said Merodach.

"I know you must've killed some, demon," Goneld said. "They're mortal. Scaly. They have tails."

"The clannfear-men," Merodach said in the Kyntongue. "Yes."

"They also have a very keen sense of smell," said Goneld. "Better than a human's. Probably better than yours."

"Hm," Merodach said. _A kynaz can find spilt blood from quite some way off, if not necessarily by scent. _He did not care particularly to elaborate on the mechanics of kyn senses to someone who might be an enemy at some point in the near future. Menien Goneld had not pronounced himself debtsworn. As barbaric a creature as a mortal human probably did not recognize the concept, even if he did have some idea what _honor _and _debt _meant as translatable words.

That was for the future. The present appeared to contain a lot of walking. Merodach growled to himself, adjusted Sodrinye's position on his shoulder, and settled in for a long haul.

---

Far to the Southwest, in a small shop in the city of Anvil, another kynaz sat up suddenly on her slab. "Onesimus," she said.

Behind the shining steel counter nearby, a hook-nosed Dremora in velvet green armor turned to look. "What is it?" he said.

"I told you there would be others," said Drurinye the Sleeper. Tiny sparks fell over her feet and the hem of her robe from the great crystal ball at the foot of the slab. Varicolored balls of fire sat on shelves or hung in the air near the ceiling, creating an odd but very bright illumination. Onesimus did not mind, and Drurinye craved the light.

"You did," said Onesimus. He set down the knife he was polishing and came to stand beside the marble slab, looking down at the other kynaz. Her hair and her robe were pale purple, and her horns were short. It was not an attractive contrast to Onesimus' orange-black skin, but if either of them was aware of this, they gave no sign.

"They are here," said Drurinye.

Onesimus looked around quickly, reaching for the weapon at his back.

"Not _here_," said Drurinye. She subsided back onto the slab, taking a deep breath. "Here in _Nirn._"

"How many, and where?" demanded Onesimus. Drurinye, tired from a long morning of enchanting new weapons, did not seem likely to answer. Onesimus sat on the edge of the slab and shook her shoulder. "Woman, wake up. I will need to know."

Drurinye opened her eyes. They were purple as well, pale and shot through with jagged pink. "One Sleeper," she said. "One debtsworn caitiff. One mortal."

"Her debtsworn is no more than a _caitiff_?" said Onesimus. He shook her again. "Drurinye. Speak."

"Yes," she said. "But I am not certain how long they will last. I am not the only one who sees..." She closed her eyes again. Onesimus sighed in exasperation and went back to polishing weapons. There was no talking to her at a time like this. Eventually she would be awake enough to speak coherently, but it would be some hours (as he had learned to count it in this plane).

Pity is not a common emotion among the Kyn, but if possible, Onesimus felt a little sorry for that caitiff. _He has no idea into what he has fallen. Poor fool._


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: In-game any arrow can pierce any armor when wielded at any skill level, but this makes no logical sense, so I'm throwing it out._

Chapter 8

It took some time to reach the beginning of hilly terrain. Ebel-Merodach began to notice two things before that: first, the glaring white-yellow _sun _overhead seemed to be moving slowly toward the horizon, and second, Menien Goneld was slowing down. His face showed no discomfort that Merodach was able to discern, but there was a thin sheen of sweat on the bald top of his head. _He has lived among the Kyn. He knows what happens when one of us is weak._

"What do mortals live on?" said Ebel-Merodach.

"Why?" said Menien Goneld. He had stopped much earlier to tie some sort of vegetation around his feet, although this seemed to be having limited effect. Blood seeped out between the wads of leaves occasionally, no doubt leaving a more conspicuous trail than Merodach's boots possibly could.

"Because I do not wish to carry both you and the loathsome one, and I cannot afford to leave you behind," said Ebel-Merodach.

"We'll hunt up something once we get off the plain," said Goneld, in between deep breaths. "Until then, you'll have to put up with me. I've been living in a godsdamned cage for I-don't-know-how-long. We're lucky I can walk at all."

"What predators live here?" said Merodach.

"Not many in this part of the country," Goneld said, and paused to breathe. "Mountain lions. Ogres. Imps."

Merodach did not recognize any of the words, but Goneld didn't seem to think whatever-they-were would be much of a problem. Merodach loosened his mace in its thong at his hip anyway. It was obvious neither Sodrinye nor the mortal were likely to be useful if an attack did materialize.

"I forgot one," said Menien Goneld. As he squinted through the waning glare, Merodach saw something like a path up ahead, curving in from their right and winding up into the hills. It was lined with flat, irregularly-shaped rocks. Someone was hiding in the taller foliage off to the side of the path. Merodach could hear them scuffing their feet.

"And what is that?" said Merodach.

"Bandits," said Menien Goneld.

An arrow whistled past Merodach's ear. He dropped the Sleeper and drew his mace at the same time, ignoring the resultant heavy _thud. _

"Hand over what you've got, conjurer," said a voice, and then a tall mortal stepped out onto the path. His armor seemed to be made from some sort of animal hide. His hair was long, more or less pale, and very dirty.

Merodach thoughtfully inspected the bow the man held in one grubby gauntlet. It seemed to be made of some vegetable matter bound with metal. _Not daedric metal. Not even Dremora._ The arrow he held nocked was similarly constructed. "What did he call you?" Merodach said to Goneld.

"He thinks I summoned you," Goneld said. He raised his voice so that the other man could hear him. "I've got nothing but scars, Nord. You're welcome to as many of those as you want."

The only reply was another arrow. Merodach stepped in front of it and watched as it _pinged _off his pauldron.

"Do you know why there are no _bandits _in Oblivion?" said Ebel-Merodach.

"I can guess," said Menien Goneld.

Merodach threw his belt knife left-handed. There was a _thunk. _He watched warily in case the mortal fired again, but apparently human reflexes were less stubborn than those of kyn. The man dropped dead about a second after the knife buried itself in his eye socket. Merodach retrieved the knife, listening carefully. There was nothing to indicate the presence of further bandits. He wiped the blade on the man's greaves and went to get Sodrinye.

"Do most low-castes throw that well?" said Menien Goneld. He went to kneel next to the body. Merodach quelled a snarl. The Nord was an unworthy kill, and besides, Goneld was merely removing the man's boots.

"No," Ebel-Merodach said. "I have twenty-five hundred souls. And two."

"Doesn't mean a thing to me," Goneld said. "But then, time doesn't pass the same way there, does it. I feel like I ought to be about a hundred years old by now."

Merodach grunted as he hoisted the Sleeper. "A hundred what?"

"Years," Goneld said. "A year is three hundred and sixty-five days. A day is how long it takes the sun to rise and set and rise again. And for a human, a hundred years is a lifetime."

"Your lives are short," Merodach said. "And you are not permitted further incarnation. Why do you not despair?"

Goneld smiled without humor. There was something in his face that Merodach could not quite recognize, because no immortal can truly understand what it is to be old. "Some of us do." He edged back warily as Merodach knelt and slung Sodrinye down next to the bandit. "What are you doing?"

"She will recover faster if she drinks," said Merodach.

Menien Goneld curled his lip, but did not comment further. "I need his armor and his weapons."

"I am not sure I should allow you to be armed," Merodach said.

Goneld shot him a look. "Can you afford for me not to be?"

He was right, of course. Merodach muttered to himself momentarily, then said, "Do it quickly." He did not move away from the body as Goneld knelt beside it. The human stripped away the corpse's cuirass, greaves and boots with practiced movements. The man was wearing some sort of garment between his armor and his skin. It was not very clean. Goneld tore it off along with the rest and hauled the lot off to one side.

"Stay where I can see you," said Merodach. Then he seized the Nord by the hair. He dragged the corpse nearer to Sodrinye and sliced across the big artery and vein in the side of his neck.

Blood spurted. Merodach was beginning to feel thirsty himself, by this time. Not so thirsty that he would stoop to such prey, however – particulary while he was debtsworn. _Let the loathsome one have him, _he thought, and shoved Sodrinye's head under the flow of blood.

The stuff in the mortal's vessels moved slower than the blood of a kynaz, and it seemed cold where it splashed onto Merodach's gauntlets. He could see Sodrinye swallowing – her throat bobbed every so often under its new coat of red – but it was so thin that it could hardly be very nourishing. From the corner of his eye, he saw Goneld peel the bloody scraps of grass off his feet and replace them with the torn garment the Nord had worn.

When the corpse's blood pressure fell to a trickle, then a few drops, he tossed the man into the bushes and picked Sodrinye up again. She had never opened her eyes.

"We'll attract wild animals if you leave blood on her," said Goneld. He stood up with his new armor on, testing his weight in the boots. Merodach, watching with predatory curiosity, did not see him show any further discomfort.

"She will absorb it quickly," said Merodach. "She is thirsty."

"She'll _what?" _said Goneld. "Never mind, I don't want to know." He looked consideringly at the bloodstain on the road. "Thatwill still be here. If you wipe your boots we won't leave as much of a trail."

"Hmph," Merodach said, conveying his scorn of a world where the earth was too lazy to take up spilt blood, but he scuffed his boots briefly in the spongy ground cover before they went on.

They walked. The sun declined further toward the rim of the world. Sodrinye hung down Merodach's back like the weight of guilt, still uncommunicative and unmoving. Through his armor he could not feel her breathe, though his bare hand on her ankle did register a faint, steady heartbeat. He had hung his gauntlets on his belt so that he could keep track. Goneld glanced at them periodically. Once he frowned. "Are you sure she's alive?"

Merodach snorted. "I am debtsworn, mortal. If she dies, I will be the first to know."

Goneld shot him a look he could not read and said no more. It was unlikely that he understood. He was, after all, only mortal. They walked on into the dying light. Merodach watched the sky turn from aching blue to a more familiar red, but it quickly darkened into black. Tiny pinpoints of light flickered far above. They gave even less light than the red sky of Dagon's plane. If all of them were of the same origin as the sun, there must be a great many holes in the plane of Nirn, Merodach thought. _One would think this wretched place would be easier to reach._

He was preoccupied with trying to keep track of his environment and not trip in the dark, so it startled him when Sodrinye's voice said, "Ebel-Merodach." He very nearly let her fall back over his shoulder, but he caught her legs just in time.

"Ah, so the little fool with the grand ideas is awake again," he said in the Kyntongue.

"Where are we?" Sodrinye said. Her voice was quiet but steady.

Merodach rolled his eyes in the dark. "We are where you brought us, ugly one. I assume it is Nirn. The mortal seems to think so."

"Put me down," Sodrinye said. Merodach unslung her from his shoulder and dropped her onto the ground, albeit more gently than he might have done before. There was a soft sound of impact as she landed on her posterior, then her backHe watched, squinting through the darkness, as she slid over onto her side. She did not sit up. "Menien Goneld."

"Still here, girl," Goneld said. If he intended this to provoke annoyance, it evidently did not succeed. But then, he had been growing increasingly irascible, and Merodach had not failed to notice the blood leaking from a seam in his patched boot. He couldn't see it in the dark. It didn't matter.

"We are in Cyrodiil," Sodrinye said. A flash of glowing violet was momentarily visible as she raised herself on one elbow. It was not a question, but Goneld answered as if it had been.

"As best I can tell, yes," Goneld said. "I think we're somewhere East of the Imperial City."

"Have you found the palace yet?"

Goneld cocked his head. "What palace?"

"White walls," Sodrinye said. "A broken statue, an armored warrior with a sword. There are those inside whom Merodach will kill."

"At last," Merodach said with some satisfaction. Sodrinye moved her head in a way he could not interpret.

"It will be easy for you to diminish your debt, but purge it you cannot. I cannot let you die in this plane, caitiff."

"I doubt whether you can prevent it," Merodach said.

"I'm not so sure," said Menien Goneld.

"Silence," Merodach said. If Goneld was even slightly intimidated, he didn't show it.

"You cannot be in danger without my knowledge. I will wake," said Sodrinye.

"That doesn't sound very demonlike," Goneld said. He folded his arms. Merodach stared down at Sodrinye in the dark, stunned yet again by the placid statement of utter heresy. A flicker of violet indicated she was looking back. Then he saw her weakly lift one hand, and a green glow sprang up around her. It lit the three of them and the surrounding path for yards in every direction. Sodrinye let her head fall onto one shoulder as she looked at Merodach.

He did not look away from that miles-long stare. He was angry, as he had often been since their first meeting, but it was time he put that aside. He was trapped in Nirn. There was probably no other kynaz but Sodrinye within a thousand miles of him. He needed to understand more than anything.

"There is no reciprocity in the debtbond," he said slowly. "That is not Kyn."

"Why did you think I killed the kynval?" Sodrinye said. Her voice was even, devoid of any impatience or amusement.

"Because you require protection, and you cannot control the mortal," Merodach said.

"Glad to hear it," Goneld said. Merodach ignored him.

"It is even so," Sodrinye said. "Mortal emotion is strange. But I could have let the kynval kill you, and done to her as I did to you. She would have been a more powerful protector than you are."

Merodach could not deny the strict justice of this, since he had been pointedly avoiding telling himself exactly the same thing. "Then why?" he said. "What are you? What have you made me?"

When the dark kynaz next spoke, there was a faint bell of discord in her voice that had not been there before. Merodach knew Goneld heard it too, because he looked sharply at her as soon as she said it. "You are what you choose to be," Sodrinye said. "I am still a Sleeper. You came to me, and so I brought you."

"That is no answer," Merodach said.

"But I did choose well," Sodrinye said. The discord changed slowly into unfamiliar euphony. It vibrated oddly in his ears, bearing some message he could not read. "Another might harm me while I slept, and carry the weight of debt only so far as the preservation of my life. You have not."

"You do not know that," Merodach said. He was reluctant, however futilely, to place himself any further under her power than he already was. _You hold your honor too dear, _she had told him at their first meeting. This, unfortunately for Merodach, was the truth.

"It's true, though," said Menien Goneld. "I've noticed."

"May Dagon eat your soul," said Merodach, without much feeling. Goneld, who had once spat on him from inside a cage, only laughed. Sodrinye exhaled sharply, probably the closest she could come to a laugh herself. Her voice became relatively ordinary again, merely high and thin rather than ethereal.

"I would still know. There is new blood in my veins, and it does not belong to Menien Goneld." She shoved against the ground, pushing herself into a half-seated position with her legs awkwardly bent. Her joints behaved as if they were made of unoiled iron, stiff and unwieldy. Merodach watched as she turned her attention to Goneld.

"Take off your boots," she said.

"Why?" said Goneld.

"So that I can see your feet."

Goneld looked at her for a moment. Then he sat down in the circle of green light on the roadbed and pulled off one boot. It did not come off easily, though the Nord must have had bigger feet than the Imperial. Merodach began to pace a slow circle around the two of them, looking away from the light and out into the dark. They were among low hills and trees, but there was no saying who or what might be attracted to an obviously magical illumination here.

The human had his other boot off now. The wrappings on his feet were dark with blood. "Take them off," said Sodrinye. Merodach, as he turned with his back to them, heard a quiet curse in Cyrodilic as Goneld peeled the bandages away. He kept his face turned away to avoid being blinded by the pulse of blue light that followed. _The Sleeper has no more grasp of moderation than she has of tact. She is not cunning. And yet we still live, and are in Nirn. _There was red light next, and a soft _whomph _of flame as she burnt the old bandages.

"Why would you do that?" Goneld said. Merodach circled them again in time to see him flexing his toes. His pale skin was entirely whole.

"Our need for a guide is not diminished," Sodrinye said.

"But you know where you're going," Goneld said. He reached for his boots. "You've got the caitiff here. And I'm not good for much any more." He said it without much emotion, as a simple statement of the facts.

"You will be to us," said Sodrinye. "Imperials swear oaths, do they not?"

"All the time," Goneld said. He pulled the boots fully on and stood up. "But you're not talking about cursing, are you."

"I want your word that you will do no harm to Ebel-Merodach."

"He never sleeps, he's armed, and he's wearing full heavy armor," Goneld said. "You should make me swear I'll do no harm to _you._"

She moved her head to the left once, as if it were too much effort to complete a headshake. "You will not harm a helpless person without some cause. I give you none."

"Are you sure of that?" said Ebel-Merodach.

"Debt is not the same for him as for you," Sodrinye said, without taking her eyes from Menien Goneld. "And he hates Dremora with good cause. But he is what his language would call an _honest man."_

"That's right," said Menien Goneld, with a species of bitter humor. "And look how far it's gotten me."

"Swear," Sodrinye said.

"I swear I won't hurt the godsdamned caitiff," Goneld said. "Is that enough for you?"

"Find an animal and a place to make a fire," Sodrinye said to Merodach. "Drink its blood, and give its flesh to the mortal. He will eat nothing that speaks."

"It will be done," said Ebel-Merodach. Sodrinye's eyes were already closed.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Still some way off, Tychicus Varen walked down the road between Bruma and the Imperial City. He was a short, thick-built man, like many Imperials, but he walked very quickly for all that. Priests of Arkay generally got plenty of exercise going about their patron's business.

Not quite _this _much exercise, though. The young priestess Laure stumbled along, sweaty and exhausted, well to the rear of the priest. She had a knapsack on her back, and it was weighing her down. Not that Varen should be able to tell. At the moment Laure was invisible. Illusion was not one of the recommended skillsets for priests of Arkay, but Laure was a Breton and very apt to learn new spells.

For all her current discomfort, Laure did not regret her decision to follow Tychicus Varen. She was sure something _quite serious_, as Laure herself would put it, was happening. She had gathered from the other priests of Arkay that serious things often did happen somewhere in the vicinity of Brother Varen, although no one seemed eager to explain any further. For that matter, she suspected most of them didn't really know.

Take, for example, the awful time when Raius and his companions had been killed deep down in the ruined Ayleid city of Anga. Laure had not been part of the Chapel then – she'd been taken on to replace the others, to the extent _that _was ever possible – but she'd heard about it. Varen had been gone for a long time after that, some said hunting down the killer. That was silly, she had thought. Anyone who wandered down into the darkness full of Namira's worshippers was very likely to be killed, unless they were well prepared with companions and light. Raius had been prepared, and he was dead. But Varen had come back. And when he had left once more, in company with an Orc and a Khajiit, it was said he had performed the Rites of Arkay for all of those who lay in Anga and lived to tell the tale.

Except, of course, that he had not told any tales. That wasn't his way.

Then there had been the more recent incident with the two paladins, the Dunmer and the Altmer. Laure still wasn't sure what had happened there, except that Varen had come home tired for the first time she or anyone in the great Chapel had ever seen. _Maybe he's just getting older, _said one of the Brothers. Laure didn't believe them. She had seen the light under his door before he went out, and the bandage on his arm after he brought them back.

She was not likely to forget the sight of Tychicus Varen carrying two unconscious mer down the stairs, one over each shoulder. The others had firmly said he'd used a spell of fortification, but Laure had been standing quite close by as he passed. No magicka had been in use. She was Breton, and sensitive even for that race. She would have felt it.

Laure also possessed more than the usual measure of curiosity. This was another trait perhaps not considered ideal in a priestess of Arkay. Laure didn't generally bother herself much with what other people considered ideal. She permitted herself a tight smile, breathing hard between her teeth. No Chapel of Dibella would have taken her on, that was for certain. Laure was not pretty. Her hair was brown. Her eyes were brown. And she did not quite possess the small, neat figure most valued in Breton women. One of the things she liked best about Tychicus Varen was that he didn't seem to care. Never once had he looked at her face and her body and dismissed them, the way she'd seen nearly every male she met do since she was twelve or so. He treated her with exactly the same intent, eerie attention he gave to pretty women, men, mer, beast-folk, and occasionally the walls.

Her invisibility spell was about to run out. Laure whispered the words again, dragging up the magicka around her. Her fatigue would get ahead of her magic reserve soon. Hopefully, it would be dark before then. The sun was already creeping toward the Western horizon.

Up ahead, Tychicus Varen had apparently noted that same thing. He stopped, looking around him. Laure stood quite still. She hadn't quite settled how she was going to avoid losing him after she fell asleep for the night, but she was sure she would figure it out. Laure was not without a certain faith in her own abilities which was, incidentally, not particularly popular either in Breton women _or _in priestesses of the Divines. She had been told she was arrogant. Laure didn't see this, but she also supposed most arrogant people couldn't tell they were, either. It wasn't as if she'd joined the chapel of _Mara._

Tychicus Varen shook his head slightly. Then he unstrapped a canteen from his belt. He turned to look down the path directly at Laure. His face was a little wry. "Would you care for a drink, Sister? You must be tiring, by this time."

"_You _aren't," Laure said, making a quick recovery. She dropped the invisibility spell with some relief. "And, er, I have my own water. Brother."

"I see," said Tychicus Varen. They looked at each other for a moment. He didn't seem to be angry.

"How long have you known I was here, Brother Varen?" Laure said tentatively.

"For about two miles, Sister," said Tychicus Varen.

"You must be very preoccupied," said Laure.

"I suppose so." He examined her with a sharp brown eye. Laure had noticed he tended not to blink very often.

"I would like to go with you," said Laure.

"So I gathered," said Tychicus Varen gently. "Did you understand what I meant, when I said this was a personal trip?"

Laure nibbled her lower lip with her upper teeth. "Erm. No. Not exactly." She was dying to ask what he'd seen or heard at the Altar, but she didn't think he would answer.

"It is likely to be dangerous," Varen said. "And it is nothing that should concern a Priestess of Arkay. Not even so intrepid a priestess as yourself, Sister."

"Now you're making fun of me," said Laure wryly.

"I have never been known to joke," Varen said. He looked at her for a while longer. "Where I am going pertains to events that took place a very long time before you were born, before I took orders or even set foot in Cyrodiil. I would have to ask you to keep more than one secret which you will very much wish to tell."

_Before he set foot in _Cyrodiil, thought Laure. Tychicus Varen, who was as Imperial as an iron helmet. _"_I want to know more than I'll want to tell," Laure said firmly. "I promise not to slow you down. I can fortify my own fatigue. I'm quite good at it."

Varen sighed. "I doubt you can help yourself. I myself generally do not sleep."

"Really?" said Laure.

"Oh, yes," said Tychicus Varen.

---

It was not so very hard to find an animal. The blood in terrestrial veins beat slowly, and loud, and Ebel-Merodach could track them in the dark almost as easily as he could Menien Goneld.

Killing it was another matter, of course. The creature he stalked was utterly without natural defenses other than a small set of hooves, but it jumped up and ran away from him before he was within striking distance despite his approach from downwind.

There was a faint _thwip _about the same time the prey burst out onto the open road. It stumbled, tried to leap, and fell over. Menien Goneld strolled out of the bushes where Merodach had left Sodrinye and went to look at the arrow in the deer's neck.

"See?" he said. "I told you you'd want me armed. You're too loud to sneak up on anything."

"This plane has too many plants to step on," growled Merodach. He went to retrieve Sodrinye. "We cannot make a fire in the open road. It will be too visible while darkness persists."

"We can always wait until daylight," said Goneld. "I'll have to sleep pretty soon anyway. It's been a couple of days."

Ebel-Merodach shook his head curtly. "Now." He adjusted Sodrinye over his shoulder. "It is too cold here. If I am to do anything other than carry her, I must have warmth for the Sleeper."

"So you're finding it a little chilly now that we're not in Hell?" Goneld said dryly. "Fine. I'll check the copse you chased that deer out of. It'll save me having to watch you drink its blood."

Merodach did not deign to reply. He drew his belt knife and knelt beside the thing Goneld had called a _deer_. He could not have said he enjoyed the taste – it might be sweet, but mortal blood tasted both cold and flat – but it was better than nothing. He also poured a few drops down Sodrinye's throat, mostly to show he could disobey her if he wished. This, at least, was what he told himself. He made sure Goneld didn't see him.

After a few minutes, he heard the crackle of the flame. Merodach surveyed his two burdens with something approaching resignation, hoisted one over each shoulder, and went with straight bearing toward the fire.

Neither Merodach nor Goneld spoke as the mortal hacked off one or two bits of the deer and roasted them. Merodach watched this only briefly, until the smell of burning flesh reminded him too much of home. Then he went back to pacing around the little clearing Goneld had found, trying to see out and not look into the familiar glare of fire in the dark. There was a small stream of water running over the ground nearby, another peculiarity of this plane. Goneld went back and drank from it every so often. Merodach could not see the allure. It smelled like, well, _water. _He had dragged a short length of some plant over near the fire and propped Sodrinye near that more wholesome element.

The dark kynaz half-sat against the rigid bark, apparently still entirely unconscious. Her robe was in even worse case than it had been when he found her, shredded to the knees and entirely filthy. Merodach looked consideringly at Goneld's clothing, but ultimately decided that if he were Sodrinye, he would rather be stark naked than wearing the filthy hide of a mortal animal. Besides, the Sleeper would undoubtedly object to his taking the clothing away from Goneld. He was beginning to know her. This last thought was as close to morose as Merodach generally ever came.

After a while Goneld said, "You had better hope there's nothing really after us." He twirled a scorched stick idly between his fingers. "They'll shoot you through one of those glowing eyes before you ever see them. All that armor won't do you much good, then."

A soft snarl was all the answer Merodach felt this deserved. From the corner of one eye he saw the Imperial's shrug.

"Of course, I'll be dead, too, so I don't suppose it matters," said Menien Goneld. He licked grease off his fingers. "At least I'll have had a decent last meal first."

"That is disgusting," said Merodach.

"Says the demon who drinks blood," said Goneld. "I'm going to sleep now. Feel free to do whatever you want with the body. I doubt we'll have time to tan the hide."

Then he curled up against the base of a tree and said nothing more.

The light began to return, eventually. Merodach saw the horizon begin to turn gray long before the first painful flash of sunlight. Soon after that, it was too bright to look at. The wash of pale light crept between the trees until it struck Sodrinye's black-nailed toes. Merodach moved her back into the shade. The sound apparently woke Goneld, who staggered upright and went back to the stream again.

Goneld hid the remains of the fire. Merodach watched, memorizing everything he did. They couldn't agree about the deer. It ended up underneath some bushes a few yards off.

---

When Laure woke up that same morning, Tychicus Varen was already packed and ready to go. The priestess stared at him blearily as she sat up on her bedroll. Parts of her were sore that, well, she _had _known existed, but generally preferred not to think of in the context of physical discomfort. It had been a long walk.

"Please hurry, Sister Laure," said Brother Varen. Laure rolled onto her feet and scrambled to get ready. _No doubt he's already sorry he hasn't sent me back. Or maybe he _is _sending me back. _She glanced at him warily, but he was watching her pack her few things with the same wide-eyed blankness with which he looked at everything.

"Have I time to wash, Brother?" she asked with some trepidation.

"Yes," said Brother Varen. Laure scrambled through that as well, ran a comb through her shortish hair, and presented herself neater than might be expected. She had been out on the aedra's work once or twice, albeit not on quite such an errand as she suspected the day might bring.

"I'm ready," said Laure.

"I hope so," said Tychicus Varen. "What happens after this point will depend very much on how you react to what you are about to see. Please remember that no matter how I appear, I would never harm you."

"Er... All right?" Laure said, but Brother Varen was already changing.


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Note: Those who have read TFC: Luckless may be somewhat less surprised by the following, although apparently enough people haven't that they'll still be surprised. I'd like to add that the ideas that the beings in question a)can change their shape and b)are not bound to any daedra prince are both in lore and are not my invention, though I suspect Bethsoft didn't have in mind quite the interpretation I came up with._

_Oh, and Merodach's use of "affect" here is not a misspelling. If you don't believe me, go look up what physicians mean when they say a patient has "flat affect."_

Chapter 10

Laure took an involuntary step back as Tychicus Varen's body shrank in on itself, then exploded out and upward into an entirely new form. The matte colors of human flesh and brown robes suddenly changed to pale, slick blue, like glacier ice in the sun. Ordinary skin bulged outward into points and spikes, rugged as granite but smoother than ebony.

She squinted in the sudden glare as the sun reflected from jagged new facets on the outside of what had been an Imperial a moment before. It still had two arms, two legs, and something analogous to a face. The resemblance ended there. A nine-foot behemoth made of ice towered over her, glittering each time it breathed in and out. The width of its great chest was probably greater than her own height. She felt the cold radiating from it even from two yards away. Things moved obscurely beneath the shining surface, but even a Breton eye could not distinguish them.

"I know what that is," Laure said. Her own voice sounded oddly normal in her own ears. It sometimes did, when she was utterly petrified. Despite all her spellcraft, she was intensely aware that one quick stomp of the demon's foot could instantly and utterly annihilate her. "That is an ice atronach."

Lidless stone-chip eyes stared unreadably down at her. The creature's craggy jaws opened slowly, and then a voice issued from it like the echo from a deep well.

"Don't be afraid," said the daedra. "I am still a priest of Arkay." Laure could detect no familiar note in the sound. It had a tone like a hammer striking metal.

"I take it your name is not Tychicus Varen," said Laure, and mentally kicked herself. _Brilliant. You were going to prove to him that you aren't a child, remember?_

The atronach lifted its massive shoulders briefly. "My people use names differently," it said. "I knew a man of that name, long ago in Vvardenfell. He was a good man. I prefer to be called simply Varen, if you'd rather."

"But how does an atronach end up in the service of an aedra?" said Laure slowly. "How is that possible?"

"We are not bound to obey any Prince of Oblivion," said the thing which had been Tychicus Varen. "Most of us serve no one, and accomplish nothing. I chose otherwise. Arkay has honored my oath of service." The creature inhaled once, and then there was a _whoosh _of inrushing air as it suddenly compacted inward again. Laure received an impression of tremendous pressure, fissures forming in the ice, and then the blue dissolved back into tan and brown and Tychicus Varen stood before her as she had always known him. He breathed out slowly, like a man who has just picked up a heavy weight.

She had the oddest feeling that his eyes ought to be blue. They were still brown.

"So for all this time you've been... Er... _passing _for human?" Laure said.

"It took me a very long time to learn to hold this shape and speak," Brother Varen said. It might be Laure's imagination that his deep voice still held a tinny echo. "I led a nomad's life in Nirn for, oh, probably lifetimes. It's only Bruma that I have ever called home."

"Because it's cold there?" said Laure.

Tychicus Varen smiled sadly. "No," he said. "Because it is there that I have met with warmth."

Laure nodded slowly. Her heartbeat was at last returning to normal. She hoped she'd hidden her initial reaction better than she suspected she had. "The Chapel is that sort of place," she said. "It's what brought me there as well." Scattered thoughts began at last to coalesce, and she looked at Brother Varen with merely ordinary surprise. "So when you said you were leaving on personal business, you meant the business of an atronach?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Tychicus Varen. "I'm able to perceive when something crosses the boundary between this plane and Oblivion without being summoned. It's happened before, but nothing ill has come of it since the closing of the great gates."

"You mean someone came here yesterday?" said Laure.

"Yes," said Tychicus Varen. "And I am going to find them."

"And I'll come with you," Laure said quickly. "Have I not passed your test?"

"You didn't run away screaming," said Varen. "You did not try to kill me. I think we will call that a pass, Sister Laure."

He might have been joking. _But as he keeps saying, _Laure thought dryly, _He's never been known to joke_.

---

"We are nearly there," said Sodrinye the Sleeper. Her voice was slightly muffled, since Ebel-Merodach was presently carrying her down a shallow dip in the road, but the words were not impossible to make out.

Merodach did not reply. It had been a long morning's walk, and Sodrinye had apparently slept through most of it, completely undisturbed by the fact of hanging head-down over his shoulder. Then he stepped up to the top of the next small rise. The road dipped steeply up ahead, and cupped in the curve of a hillside was a tall ruin. Merodach squinted down at it. It was made of white stone, sharp contrast to the green plants of the plane of Nirn. Jagged points that might once have been pillars of some sort pointed up toward the achingly bright sky. A couple of giant arches stood aimlessly nearby, gateways to nowhere.

"Well, what do you know," said Menien Goneld. "She got it right."

"She often does," said Merodach.

"So far," said Goneld. "And it's not as if I'd care, but I'm surprised you toss her around the way you do. She's only got to hit her head once and you're seriously out of luck, demon."

"Perhaps you should be silent on subjects you do not comprehend, _mortal,_" said Merodach, and started down the slope toward the cluster of irregular columns.

"Never stopped me before," said a muttered voice from behind him. He could hear Goneld's footsteps, but only just. Merodach's own footsteps, armor-shod and laden with Sodrinye's weight, were quite audible.

"There is one outside," Sodrinye said. "The others are all within."

"He'll hear you coming," said Menien Goneld. "Leave that to me." He turned and padded off toward the shadow of a column in his new fur boots.

"Let him go," said Sodrinye, before Merodach had even got his mouth all the way open. "You will be sated today, Caitiff. Do not covet first blood."

"It is entirely wasted on a mortal," said Merodach, but he said it quietly.

"I do not think it is entirely wasted on Menien Goneld," said Sodrinye.

Merodach grunted noncommittally and went to look for a door. It wasn't hard to find, facing into the little courtyard in the midst of the great columns. He set Sodrinye down to one side and nudged it with his foot. The rectangle of white stone glided unexpectedly and suddenly open. Merodach ducked to one side as he drew his mace. No projectile emerged from the opening. He waited. He had used that trick himself, waiting for a clear shot at an enemy's silhouetted head.

There was a hair-raising crackle of magicka from beside him. He glanced sideways and saw the faint purple light as it suffused Sodrinye. "They are all down the stairs," she said. One hand groped for the wall, and she got laboriously to her feet. "They cannot see the doorway from there. You are safe."

Merodach quashed his puzzlement at the irrelevant last statement. "And what is your debtsworn to do with you, loathsome one?" said Ebel-Merodach.

She did not seem to hear the insult. After the first time, she never had. "I will follow. Let one escape this way alive. Only one."

"As you will," said Ebel-Merodach. Even Sodrinye ought to be able to survive one lone mortal, assuming she was still awake when they arrived. In retrospect, he suspected she'd been hoarding her strength since their arrival, perhaps for exactly this occasion. It didn't annoy him particularly that she should use him thus. He would have been impressed by her success in tricking him, if he could've been sure that was what she had done.

He was still trying to understand her, and failing. The Sleeper did not seem to covet souls, and if she had, he was certain no honorable being would wish to count the soul of one who had already been allowed to escape. _Weak. Unworthy._

_Of course, Sodrinye the Sleeper is both of those things, _Merodach thought. But that was not quite consistent with his experience. Ordinary Dremora thought would tend to assign those attributes to any creature which did not behave exactly like themselves. One was Kyn, or not Kyn – the same way one people of Nirn sometimes, had he but known it, would say one was _human, or not human. _Sodrinye did not behave as even a weak kynaz ought, and it nagged at him like a wound in the heel. Her affect was so different from the ordinary that he could not even be certain she was mad. Perhaps she was merely cunning, and kept making these indecipherably emotional statements – _you are safe? - _in order to keep him off balance.

It was working, Merodach thought grimly, and stepped down into the cold blue darkness of the ruin.

He felt with one foot for the ground to his left, making sure it was stable, and then groped for a wall in that direction. He found one after a yard or so. It felt a little like stone, but it was nothing familiar. Stone in Nirn was chill and lifeless.

After a few moments, his eyes began to adjust and he could see the landing on which he stood. Not much light came in from outside despite the open door. It was darker than the inside of a Citadel, and the only light was the harsh and hideous blue coming up from below. A broad stair went down that way. He could see glowing stones stuck into the wall, throbbing with that same unpleasant hue.

Someone laughed harshly from down below. _There is work to be done. _Merodach showed his teeth, adjusted his grip on the mace, and started down the stairs. He made no attempt to be silent. In the dark, on a stone stair, and in heavy armor, he would certainly fail. Besides, he wanted them to hear him.

He was halfway down the steps before he heard a human voice say, "Shh! Somebody's coming."

"'S just the wind, Geron. You're too drunk to know which way's up, let alone - "

"Shut up, idiot! They're on the stairs!" said a third voice. There was a scuffling noise and a couple of scraping sounds, probably the gathering of dropped weapons. At the bottom of the stairs Merodach could see filigree of rusted metal to either side, cages or cells built into the pitted white stone of the underground walls. The design was elaborate, smooth, and utterly alien, but the holes were too small to easily shoot through. Certainly not if one were a drunken mortal.

A fireball the size of Merodach's head hissed off his left shoulder a half-second after he stepped between the cages. _A krynvelhat can fire through anything. _Merodach ignored the brief pain in that arm – his pauldron had absorbed most of it – and stepped quickly around the corner of the cage to look for the caster. A human female in a gray robe shot another fireball at him, but he had only to turn a little to one side to avoid this one, and then she tried to turn and run and he hit her in the back of the head with the mace. There was a _crunch, _and she hit the ground so hard her body bounced on the stone

Someone was coming up behind him, soft-shod footsteps on the stone. Merodach turned and caught the falling blade on his left arm. The longsword was made of mere iron; it didn't even scratch his cuirass. Besides, the mortal surely was drunk, to try an overhand swing on an armored opponent. Merodach cuffed him aside with his left gauntlet and looked for the third mortal.

Things moved in the blue shadows. There was not one more. There were five. Merodach stamped on the chest of the man he'd knocked down, ignored the resultant gurgling scream, and turned to put his back to the wall. The men wore various combinations of dirty clothing and leather armor, but none of them moved like real fighters. _More of Goneld's _bandits, Merodach judged contemptuously. Not one was leveling a bow at him. Apparently they had expected their krynvelhat to kill or dispel him easily.

"What in every hell is that?" said one of them. He had darker skin than the others, and unlike them, he wielded nothing more than a dagger.

"'S a Dremora," said another. "I saw one once. They got good armor. Get a good price for it."

"Gotta be summoned," said a third. "Somebody go find the wizard and kill him."

"Got it," said one, and peeled off to run for the stairway. Merodach smiled, showing his teeth. _Fools. _Of the remaining four, three were smaller than Menien Goneld and one was of the taller race he had called _Nords. _Ebel-Merodach contemplated drawing his dagger, but rejected that idea. _There is too much possibility of waste. _Mortal blood was thin, and he was very thirsty.

When the rush came, it was ragged and poorly coordinated. That would not have mattered if they had been facing an unarmed traveler or merchant. Against an armored caitiff of the Citadel of Crushing Burdens, it was utterly fatal.

The Nord arrived first, swinging a great axe. Merodach ducked under the swing and swiped at his belly with the flanged head of the mace. It tore his fur garment but barely scratched his skin, and then Merodach had to move aside to avoid the dark-skinned one with the knife. The dark human was faster than the Nord, who was now staggering as he realized how little damage it takes to kill with a poisoned weapon. Merodach saw this from the corner of his eye, and laughed. The sound echoed off the high walls. The dark one took the opportunity to try and jab through the seam of Merodach's cuirass, but unfortunately for him, Dremora breastplates are very closely forged. The small blade rang sparks from the armor, and then Merodach cut him down with the mace and spun to face the next.

---

Sodrinye the Sleeper watched her debtsworn feel his way toward the stairs of the Ayleid ruin. She was not entirely certain how she knew that was what it was. Some scrap of dream barely remembered, perhaps. She had spent quite some time since their arrival in a black and empty space of utter exhaustion, the silence next door to a mortal conception of death. The sight of these white walls looming out of that abyss had been a tremendous relief. Merodach had given her back some of her strength.

She was sure her sister had been trying to reach her, but she could not quite hear. She had sensed no strong hostility from Drurinye. Probably there was enough territory here in Nirn for two Sleepers to coexist in whatever freedom was possible for them. Or perhaps Drurinye had some design for her disposal already in mind. She might be a Sleeper, but she was still Kyn.

Ebel-Merodach's outline was nothing but a moving smudge now, foiling Sodrinye's poor vision. She could not look easily from light to dark. She waited until the sound of his heavy step grew distant, then reached out to the doorway and stepped gingerly inside. Her limbs were heavy and stiff, defeating her purposes, but she had learned to master them far enough to stay upright. The floor seemed frigid under her bare feet, the stone against her hand cold as the grave.

_Cold as the grave? _Now where had she heard that? It wasn't a Dremora thing to say. The Kyn didn't bury their dead. It would have been a waste of perfectly useful flesh and blood and bone.

There were voices from below. Sodrinye did not use another life detection. She knew how many there were, and she didn't want to be visible to whomever Merodach chased up the stairs. She didn't doubt he would do it. He wanted her alive, and he would keep her so by the means most comprehensible to him. It wouldn't be the same way an honorable mortal would treat a helpless female, of course. Merodach, on the other hand, would not quail at whatever it _did _take to preserve her life – including some things that even most of the Kyn, that bloody, bold and resolute people, would hesitate to do. _Traitor to his Citadel. Fugitive from his plane. And he has done this for me, whom he calls loathsome. What would he have done, for one who was truly worthy? _

_But such a one would not do what I will. _Sodrinye felt that connection pulling between them like a length of chain, a spiny anchor embedded in the center of herself. She'd tried to explain it, but she wasn't very good at that. _And he doesn't want to know. That he is bound to me is bad enough. Mutual advantage or single possession is the Kyn way. I was born to know this. It is only an ill fate that has made me learn I cannot follow it._

Sodrinye took a step onto the stairs and almost fell. She clutched at the wall for support, dreading the inevitable tumble end-over-end, but righted herself at last. _This will not do. _She leaned there for a moment, fighting the dragging weariness in her arms and legs, and at last sat down on the top step. She leaned against the cold wall, trying to keep her eyes open, and moved one foot and then the other down a step. Then she pushed off with her hands and slid her backside down onto the next little shelf of stone.

It was not a quick nor a dignified method, scooting down one step at a time, but it worked. She was down to the sixth or seventh step when she heard someone running toward the base of the stairs. It was not Merodach. He couldn't run that fast, and this person was wearing light boots. Sodrinye pressed herself into the shadow of the stair, wound up the magicka into a tight, aching ball inside, and waited.

The unknown started up the steps without pause, and she heard his panting breath. _He does not see me. _Sodrinye saw only a dark blur coming toward her, but she could judge where his feet were by the sound of his steps. When he had almost passed her, she swung her arm out and into both his shins.

The man cried out as his elbow and shoulder thudded into the hard stone. The side of his leg hit the stair, so that Sodrinye's arm was not crushed. She jerked it out from under him as he scrabbled for purchase with his hands. Her clumsily groping fingers found the main mass of his body. She held on as best she could, resisting his attempt to push her away and get up, and then she set up the channel and let the magic go.

Red light bloomed from the end of Sodrinye's fingers, blotting out her view. That was all right. She didn't need to see. Magicka bound her to the struggling mortal so tightly that even her weak grip sufficed to hold him. The link was not a comprehensive one, insufficient to read his thoughts or understand the inner workings of his body. It bound them together in one way only:

Life to life.

It is not precisely an easy thing for a magus to draw the life out of another being and into herself. Among other things, one must be very certain the prospective victim is not better able to hold onto that life than you are to steal it. This is why the method is often used by the Undead, who are already lifeless and have nothing to lose and much to gain.

Sodrinye the Sleeper was entirely alive. Her body was utterly without strength. And no human will to live was greater than Sodrinye's thirst after life. She felt the soul leave the man's body after less than ten seconds. Sodrinye let him go, and the lines of magicka snapped so hard that he was thrown back against the opposite wall. The body began to slide down and away from her, unhindered by any further effort. Sodrinye was not troubled by the look on the corpse's face. Among other things, all she could see of it was a white blur.

The Sleeper shook herself. For as long as the infusion of life lasted, she would be completely awake. There was no dragging weight in her limbs, and her eyes stayed open of their own accord. The Sleeper stood up on her own two feet and began her stiff but unhesitant walk down the stairs.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

If there was any sound of struggle from the stairwell, it was too quiet for Ebel-Merodach to hear. His conflict with the bandits was disappointingly brief – none of them had real armor, and there were none of the lizard-men who might have resisted the poison enchantment of his mace. It wasn't long before he stood alone and surrounded by the bodies. Then and only then did he pause to look around him.

The chamber in which he stood was a great rectangle, with the filigree cages at either end and a ceiling towering far above. It was harshly and unbendingly symmetrical, utterly devoid of the organic circularity of Dremora construction. Blue light filtered down from glowing crystals that hung in cages from the distant ceiling. Nothing moved. The only scent to reach his nostrils was of old stone and dust. _This building is a corpse. _And not a corpse in the sense one might find it in Oblivion – food, decoration and alchemy storehouse – but a frozen, gutless hulk. _Good for nothing._ He had a horrifying feeling that the building itself had always been like this, born dead and preserved thus. It had no thirst for the blood spilt on the stones of its floor.

Merodach shook himself silently, reproving this overly sentimental train of thought, and went to see what had happened to Sodrinye. He was almost to the base of the stairs when the dark kynaz stepped carefully off the bottom step.

The caitiff stared at her for a moment. She stood unsupported, with her back completely straight. The violet threads in her black eyes glowed brightly in the dim as she looked up at him. For the first time he had ever seen, she held her head up.

"What have you done?" said Merodach.

"I have consumed a life," said Sodrinye. "While it lasts, I will have strength." He couldn't hear her sigh, but he saw her shoulders rise and fall. "A little. Go and drink, caitiff. You are thirsty."

Merodach was not a stupid kynaz, so he was not totally surprised when the weight of debt overrode his will and he found himself saying, "You go first."

Sodrinye shook her head. "While this lasts, blood is no good to me. I will need it badly afterwards."

"Then clothe yourself, and spare me the sight of you," said Ebel-Merodach, with as much scorn as he could muster. He went to drag the female krynvelhat within Sodrinye's reach before he turned back to the others. He kept his mace in his hand as he drank. The great room seemed to be all there was to the ruin, but one never knew. A very busy few moments later, Merodach heard soft footsteps on the stairs. He dropped the corpse with which he had been occupied, licking the blood from his lips. The dead human's skull made a hollow noise as it hit the floor.

"It is Menien Goneld," said Sodrinye. She now knelt in the dead mage's gray robe and moccasins, and for reasons of her own had laid her old garment over the corpse of the mortal. Merodach would have assumed the gesture to be a derisive one if she had been any _other _kynaz.

The gray robe fit her well. Most human races were small compared to the Kyn, but Sodrinye was thin for a kynaz.

Merodach stood up and waited. He still deeply loathed the taste of mortal blood, the blue ruin around him, and this frigid, glaring, half-dead plane, but all of those things were easier to face on a full stomach. At the moment he was inclined to be philosophical. A moment later, Menien Goneld appeared between the two cages. Merodach watched as he assessed the room, tracing each place where an enemy might hide in a way that had taken Merodach his entire first incarnation to learn. _But mortals are only allowed one. No wonder they learn quickly. _The Imperial was moving a little slowly, apparently fatigued, but there was no sight or smell of blood on him.

"See? Only six of them," said Goneld. "I knew you wouldn't have any trouble, demon. What happened to that poor bastard on the stairs? He looks like he saw it coming."

"The Sleeper drained his life," said Merodach. Beside him, Sodrinye got to her feet. She did it with more assurance than customarily, but still very abruptly. Menien Goneld watched. There was a look on his face which the caitiff was unable to interpret.

"And here I've been thinking the caitiff was a monster," Goneld said. "He's nothing to what you are, is he."

"No," said Sodrinye. Her face held no expression whatsoever. "To him also I am a monster, Menien Goneld. Have I not told you he would kill me, if he were ruled by his own will?"

"Yes," said Menien Goneld. "You did."

"Yet now he is in honor bound to defend me from you," Sodrinye said. "And you have sworn to do him no harm. Even if you succeeded in taking my life without taking his, which in justice to him I will say is very unlikely, you would have done him immeasurable harm. If I am lost in the void, he will never be able to discharge his debt. It will be a thorn in his flesh for all eternity. Even if he, too, perishes in Nirn and is lost, if any shred of him remains, it will continue to torment him."

Merodach considered this with no small amount of grim glee. _Perhaps I have underrated her capacity for guile. _"You are fairly caught, Menien Goneld," said Ebel-Merodach. "As I was."

Menien Goneld stared at the Sleeper for a moment. Then he laughed, a brief and bitter sound. "So long as I stay as honest as you think I am."

"Even so," said Sodrinye the Sleeper. She looked at Ebel-Merodach for a moment, one flitting glance, and then turned her face toward the stairwell again. "We have no need of anything else belonging to these dead. Take what you wish."

"Are you planning to just keep the bodies here? They'll rot, you know," Goneld said. "And they might not stay down. Strange things happen on Ayleid ground."

"On what?" said Merodach. The adjective was obviously not a Cyrodilic word, though Goneld continued to speak that tongue.

"This is an Ayleid place," said Goneld, waving his hand aimlessly at the room. "Heartland High Elves. They died out a long time ago, supposedly. Left a lot of things behind."

"Elves," spat Merodach. "_Aedryn khajadi._" _Filthy aedra worshippers. _But it made sense. The death of merish virtue would explain the awful atmosphere of this place, a locale abandoned by the spirit of the aedra but unfilled by any daedric presence.

"You'll be changing your tune the first time you run into a lich," said Menien Goneld. "Do I have to repeat my question?"

"Ebel-Merodach, do you yet thirst?" said Sodrinye.

"No," said Merodach.

"Then I will burn them up when you have finished, Menien Goneld," said Sodrinye.

"Fine," said Goneld. He stalked in to search the corpses, avoiding the blood still leaking from a couple of throats. Mortal blood pressure was much lower than Dremora, but even that petered out fairly quickly from the vessels in the neck. Merodach watched him narrowly. The physical weakness of their first short time in Nirn appeared to have left him. _No. He was inside a cage for too long. He has recovered command of himself, not strength in his body. Which means he is now collected enough to lie to us. _Merodach considered that. _Probably. _Humility was not one of his outstanding traits, but he was very aware of his inadequacy in the area of reading human emotion. And while he saw some small parallel between fighting men – or why else had he laughed, the time Goneld spat on him from inside a cage? - the divide between mortal and immortal was great. Humans became much more difficult when it was necessary to view them as something other than prey and entertainment.

_But that has been our error all along, _thought Ebel-Merodach, watching Goneld pick out thin bits of metal that had the look of tools more than weapons. The quick darker Human had apparently been carrying several. _If we had not underestimated their strength, Lord Dagon's plans for this place might have succeeded. And if we had fully understood the debt the Blood of Akatosh felt to this plane and its people. _But that was another emotional question. Perhaps it was not debt at all, but some other mortal emotion which Ebel-Merodach would never be able to understand.

"I'm finished," said Menien Goneld, who now had several more weapons than previously. He'd collected some food for himself as well, or at least that was what Merodach assumed it was. He preferred not to look at it too closely.

"Stand back," said Sodrinye the Sleeper. Goneld moved out of the way with some alacrity. Merodach stationed himself behind Sodrinye's shoulder. He had no reason to doubt her aim, but he had no idea exactly how large a fireball she was likely to prod -

_WHOMPH._

A couple of seconds later, the ringing cleared from Ebel-Merodach's ears. He opened his eyes. A mushroom cloud of smoke was ascending slowly toward the ceiling. The bodies were gone, and a blackened circle on the floor was all that was left. There was hardly even a smell of burning flesh; they had been too quickly consumed. The table where Sodrinye had sat was gone as well. Menien Goneld, who had not chosen his station as carefully as Merodach, was picking himself up from the floor.

"Next time we'll just bury them, all right?" said Goneld.

"Why?" said Ebel-Merodach. "They were already dead."


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Since fast travel a)has no rational nor magical explanation ingame but b)is referred to by at least one character, even if it's M'aiq the Liar, I've decided to consider it a sort of quantum magical power. _

Chapter 12

"Can you tell how near we are, Brother Varen?" said Laure, making an effort to speak normally and not as if she were gasping for breath. Tychicus Varen had stopped to let her rest several times as it was, and if he showed no sign that it bothered him, it certainly bothered Laure.

"Probably several days' walk," said the priest. "We would have to circumvent the Imperial City to the North if we planned to travel the entire way on foot."

"Is that not what we're going to do?" said Laure.

"No," said Tychicus Varen. "But it'll take some considerable discharge of magicka to do what I plan, and we must be well out of range of any mage's ability to sense it."

Laure, who during her priestly training had been one of those tiresome students who has an answer to the professor's every question and is not afraid to speak up accordingly, racked her brains for a spell that would carry them several days' journey without walking. _Unless he's able to summon a horse, and I do not believe atronachs can conjure, I can't imagine, _she thought_. There have been magics of that type in Vvardenfell, of course. But unless he has visited the exact location at which these invaders have arrived, that would not be useful. _"What will you do, Brother?" she said finally.

"I'm not completely sure I can explain it," said Tychicus Varen. "Most residents of a particular plane are bound very tightly to that plane. A few, like the ones we are seeking, can undo those bonds enough to travel between without a gate. It's possible to effect an intermediate form of travel, step out of a plane and back into it in the same instant. If you are able to concentrate sufficiently, you may choose the locale at which you return." He stopped, looking around them. The graveled path was narrow and trended steeply downward as they moved further from the city of Bruma. Trees crowded close on every side.

"What if you aren't able to concentrate sufficiently?" said Laure.

"I've never had that experience," said Tychicus Varen. "But I suspect you would arrive spread over a very large area. Take my hand, please." Laure obediently held out her hand for his square, cold one, trying to tell herself not to be afraid.

"But you've done this before, right?" she said.

"Once or twice," said Tychicus Varen. He inhaled deeply.

"Which was it, once or - " Laure began nervously, but was cut off. Everything whirled dizzily around her, trees and rocks and sky spinning at an ever-increasing speed until they blurred into gray. There was a sudden, abrupt sensation of motion that turned her stomach, and then they snapped to a stop. It felt like falling off a horse. Laure did start to fall, but then her hand was let go and a strong arm caught her around the waist.

"Are you all right?" said a distant, tinny voice. Stars flickered in and out of her vision, not the painful bursts caused by lack of air but actual twinkling celestial bodies. There was a brief glimpse of an enormous red moon.

"...Stars?" Laure said.

"Ah, yes," said Tychicus Varen. "I suppose a human being would experience the afterimage a little differently than I do. Lean on me. Your vision will clear."

Laure held on obediently. Tychicus kept his arm around her. Even though she couldn't see him, she was completely certain of the look on his face; his hold was firm but utterly impersonal. She might have been clinging to a standing stone.

After a moment the lights went out, and a moment after that she was blinking in daylight. "I think I can see," she said. Varen released her carefully, watching to see if she could stand. Laure maintained herself firmly upright, ignoring the residual giddiness. She looked around slowly. They stood among green hills punctuated with great boulders, no longer in deep forest. Sprigs of lavender came up here and there. There was a brown path under her feet.

"Where is this?" said Laure.

"We are East of the City," said Varen. "Near a ruin called Sercen. I don't know that they are there, but I'm sure they arrived nearby and it is the most logical shelter."

"You said _they,_" said Laure, adjusting the straps on her pack as she regained her equilibrium. "Are there more than one?"

"It is likely," said Tychicus Varen. "The last such to approach Nirn was a Sleeper, a Dremora afflicted from birth. They cannot survive here without some sort of assistance."

"Assistance?" Laure looked at him quizzically as they began walking. Varen turned at once toward the Northwest, and Laure followed him quickly. "I thought daedra could only feel hate."

"I myself am a daedra," Varen pointed out mildly, and Laure felt the hot flush rise in her face. She'd been thinking of him as human again. He waved away her attempt to apologize. "Never mind, Sister, I took no offense. What you say is perhaps true from an entirely mortal perspective. Dremora do feel, and keenly, but it is not the same as human or merish emotion. They understand loyalty, and debt, and guilt, but love is so rare among them that it's looked upon as a fatal illness. For a Sleeper to have brought another Dremora with her does not require that he or she have any personal liking for the Sleeper."

"With _her. _You mean this Dremora is female," said Laure.

"Sleepers are not invariably so, but it's often the case," said Varen. They topped a small rise, and there was the ruin. Laure did not pause long to look at it, because firstly, Varen didn't, and second, she had no desire to stand silhouetted against the sky. _These creatures may not know we're coming. May. _She received an impression of towering white columns, worn by time and weather, and then they were down in the hollow and she saw the man in fur armor dragging a body out the front door.

"Brother Varen," she whispered, winding up magicka. The strain of Varen's travel spell hadn't done _that _any harm, at least.

"Yes, I see him," said Tychicus Varen. He did not slack his pace as he turned toward the man. As they came closer, Laure saw that the top of his head was balding, and the fringe of hair around it was gray. His head was bent as he hauled the corpse effortfully along by both legs. His armor was a little too big for him, hanging off his shoulders and arms.

Laure thought they were moving fairly quietly, but the man must have heard them. He dropped the body and drew a bow quicker than she would have thought possible, for a man in armor that didn't fit.

"Stop right there," he said harshly. His face looked younger than she had expected. "Who are you?"

"We're not murderous bandits," snapped Laure. Considering what she had seen over the last couple of days, she wasn't about to be intimidated by a man in badly-patched fur with iron arrows.

The man grunted as he looked at their brown robes. He lowered the bow slowly, letting the string go slack. "If you are, you're wearing a good disguise. Whose priests are you?"

"We belong to Arkay," said Varen.

"You want to do the Rites for this poor idiot here?" said the man. His accent was clearly Imperial.

"And destroy the evidence of your crime?" said Laure acidly. The man rolled his eyes.

"Does he look like somebody shot him?" He reached down and hauled the body up by the hair so she could see the face. Laure shuddered involuntarily. "I'm no mage. Just an old soldier."

"And you took up banditry at the closing of the Gates?" said Tychicus Varen.

"Never," said the Imperial, and if he was lying, he was the best actor Laure had ever seen. "I've been a prisoner since then."

Laure blinked. "You were in prison for two years?" _I suppose that explains why he is so thin. _The man's cheekbones looked likely to stab through the skin in his face. The hollows of his eyes were very deep.

"Two years?" he repeated slowly. "What do you mean?"

Laure looked at Tychicus Varen, unsure what to say to this. "The gates have been closed for two years," said Varen. His voice was very gentle, but she felt the charge of magicka building around him. "Since Martin Septim gave his life to defeat Lord Dagon."

The Imperial stared at them blankly for a moment, as if he had not understood. Then he turned white to the lips. For a moment Laure thought he was going to faint, and then he turned and leaned one arm against the doorpost with his back to them. Faintly she heard him say, "Oh, gods..."

Laure looked from him to Varen. To her surprise, the atronach priest was looking at the bedraggled Imperial with something resembling pity. "I am sorry," he said.

He opened his hand toward the man as if in benediction. A faint green tracery flew out, opening into a net, and then it struck the Imperial and vanished. He crumpled as if he had no bones. Laure followed Tychicus Varen forward, looking around nervously. "I think he might be mad," she said.

"Not yet," said Tychicus Varen. "But I'm not sure what he would do." He picked up the Imperial and set him to one side as if he weighed nothing at all. Laure could see him breathing, but his head lolled, eyes half-open. _Varen paralyzed him. _"If you would be so kind as to perform the Rite for this dead man, Sister?"

"Yes, of course," said Laure. Here at last was something familiar. She knelt beside the body, dug her unguent vial out of her knapsack, and began to recite the Rite of Arkay. From the corner of her eye, she saw Varen calmly binding the Imperial's hands with the belt from the fur cuirass.

The Rite of Arkay is not particularly long. As she came to the end, the body began to dissolve into gray ashes, blowing away in the faint breeze. There was a faint smell of brimstone that did not belong. _We've come to the right place. _

"He died by daedric magic," said Laure.

"Almost certainly," said Varen. He stood up, looking down at the Imperial. Then he turned to Laure as she straightened up herself. "Sister Laure, you must listen very closely to me."

"Yes, of course," said Laure.

"When I step inside that door, I am not sure what will happen. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps it will be a fight to the death. If it comes to that, you must return and save this man. Do you agree?"

"If that's your wish, Brother," said Laure.

"Do the best you can for him, but I think he has suffered too much to be trusted far."

"Suffered how?" said Laure. Varen turned to push gently at the stone door. It swung open.

"He was not a prisoner in Nirn," said Tychicus Varen.

---

Sodrinye the Sleeper stood patiently, watching the stairs. Merodach stalked impatiently to and fro nearby, pacing without moving too far away from her. He did not feel the surge of magicka from up above them. Sodrinye did.

"Ebel-Merodach," she said.

"Yes, loathsome one," said Merodach.

"We are about to encounter an immortal of some power," said Sodrinye. "Do not attack unless we are attacked."

The caitiff spun toward her, drawing his weapon. "Is Menien Goneld dead?"

"No," said Sodrinye. "These are votaries of Arkay. I have seen them."

"An _immortal _votary of Arkay?" said Merodach. Sodrinye nodded once. Merodach looked at her, fiery threads glowing in his eyes, and she could almost trace his train of thought. "This is why you took a life," he said.

"Yes," she said. She did not speak with much apparent emotion. She never had. It took too much energy and was dangerous besides. "You cannot face them alone."

She felt the source of magicka approach them before she heard the footsteps descending the stairs. There was another beside it, but this one was much smaller. _Mortal. _Ebel-Merodach came back to stand beside her, nearby but not interfering with her line of sight. Her first glimpse of the strangers was no more than a brownish blur in the dim light as they came toward her. Then there was another surge of magic, and a blue illumination sprang up that was brighter than the dim lights of the ruin. Merodach rumbled under his breath.

"Hail, Sleeper," said the atronach in the priestly guise. He spoke Cyrodilic, but Sodrinye felt the tingle of ice behind his words.

"Hail, servant of the Aedra," said Sodrinye. "I have been waiting for you."

"We saw your handiwork upstairs," said the atronach. "This is not, perhaps, the best way to assure me of your good faith."

Sodrinye shrugged one shoulder. "We would have had to kill him anyway," she said. "They tried to kill Ebel-Merodach. And I could not let my debtsworn face an ice atronach without being able to stand with him."

"_Atronach kheised?" _said Merodach, startled into speaking in the Kyntongue. He did not look at her, but she was close enough to see the muscle in his neck tense under his orange-black skin.

"My eyes lie to me, when they show me anything at all," she said. "But he is close to his element. Magicka never lies." The mortal creature stood half behind the atronach, whispering something. From the cadence, Sodrinye guessed it was a prayer. The ice atronach's power was mostly his own, but the strong taint of aedric magic clung to the other. _Gift without debt. Light without fire. _

_Enemy, from time immemorial._


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"You were not sent by my sister," said Sodrinye. It was possible the other Sleeper would not come herself on such an errand, given the difficulty in travel. It seemed unlikely, however, that she would choose a priest of the Light as her agent. _Not a sincere one. And atronachs are not known for their guile._

"No," said the atronach. "I once spoke with her as I speak with you. This is my home, and the Kyn have done much harm here. What do you want?"

"I am Sodrinye the Sleeper," Sodrinye said. "In Oblivion I would always be a slave or a chattel. Here I am..." She hesitated, searching through fragments of memory. "I think the closest word in this tongue is _free._"

There was a thoughtful silence. The mortal had stopped whispering, but seemed to be holding her ground beside the atronach. "It is possible you are lying," said the creature of ice slowly. "If you've spoken with Drurinye, you know why she came here. If you meant harm, you might say the same."

"Look at my debtsworn," said Sodrinye. "You can see him better than I can see you." It was blurry still, but she did see his head move as he turned to look at Ebel-Merodach. She _was_close enough to see the other kynaz very clearly. He was staring back at the atronach, but he had lowered his mace. _I chose well,_ she thought sadly. _Ebel-Merodach is no slave to bloodlust. He offered me the first drink from his own kill not an hour ago._

"That is Dremora armor," said the atronach. "Not daedric."

"Even so," said Sodrinye.

"What does that mean, Brother Varen?" said the human girl.

"He's not an officer," said the atronach. "Not of a high caste. Though I think he is old for his rank. Look at the length of his horns."

"And of what caste is my sister's debtsworn?" said Sodrinye.

"He is not, in fact, her debtsworn," said Varen. "But he is a kynreeve."

Sodrinye was silent for a moment, recalculating rapidly. She had expected Drurinye to have a powerful protector, but... _If he is not _her_debtsworn, then she must be his_. It could easily have happened. Had Sodrinye herself not taken steps to insure her position with Ebel-Merodach... _I would be in his debt many times over. He has preserved my life. _

_And this means Drurinye's will is not her own. We are Sleepers, not like other Kyn. She will be bound to him in other ways than debt. _If the other kynaz were normal, this probably meant any territorial dispute would be with him, not necessarily with Drurinye. And while Sodrinye could easily reach her sister's mind from anywhere on the planet, the same was not true of the unknown kynreeve.

"He is not hers," said Sodrinye slowly. "But you have not been able to harm them."

"It has not been necessary," said Varen. "Onesimus and Drurinye seldom leave their shop in Anvil. They have no designs of conquest here."

"No more have I," said Sodrinye. "I have one kynaz, and one human of whose loyalty I am not certain - "

"What did you do to that man?" demanded the human girl.

"We have done nothing," said Sodrinye, in some puzzlement at this outburst. "he was a prisoner of the Citadel, as I was."

Sodrinye's hearing was better than her sight, but it was no better than human, and she was concentrating closely on the girl and the atronach. She would certainly not have used any other form of detection, because a Sleeper could never bring up the magicka subtly and it would probably have escalated an already-tense situation. An image she recognized as precognitive kept trying to obtrude itself on her consciousness, but to let it occlude her would be to relinquish control as well, and that she dared not do yet. She did not know Menien Goneld was on the stairs until she heard his ragged voice say,

"You arrogant bastard."

The words came simultaneous with the _twang_of the bow. The atronach who called himself Varen stiffened instantly, and then Sodrinye saw only the blur of motion as he swept himself and the girl away from the stairwell opening.

"No," Sodrinye said. She thrust her arm out in front of Merodach, something she ordinarily could not have done without losing her balance. She could_ feel _the tension in his every muscle, but he held his ground.

"_You had better know what you are doing, woman," _muttered Merodach, for her ears only.

"Getting shot through the liver hurts," said Goneld's voice. "But any priest in Cyrodiil can heal that. Next time you hit me from behind you'd better kill me, because otherwise I surely am going to kill you."

"Brother?" said the girl tightly. The priest's blocky body was between her and Sodrinye, so that she was likely able to see the arrow; the two of them made one solid shadow to the Sleeper, for the atronach's light had gone out. And now she could feel the taint of blood, and it was very nearly human; his imitation was so precise that Sodrinye had no doubt his blood would be red. The taste of ice was very faint in the air.

"It's all right," said Varen's voice. Sodrinye did not take time to wonder over the meaning of this phrase. She did not normally permit herself to be angry – in a Sleeper that was too likely to be fatal – but her new strength was betraying her. Ordinarily constant fatigue would keep the magicka dammed up inside, would flatten her emotions so that she was hardly able to feel pain or rage or fear, but without that check she could barely contain it. _This situation is escaping my control. _She felt Ebel-Merodach shift his weight beside her as the power rose.

"Ebel-Merodach has advised me not to toy with Menien Goneld." Sodrinye kept her voice level by strong effort. "It is advice you would be wise to consider. Go now."

"The circle is not closed," said the atronach. "We will meet again." Sodrinye felt the small spike in background magicka as he raised his hand, and then the two intruders vanished in a shower of pink sparks.

Sodrinye breathed, slowly and deeply. The power spiraled away, taking some of her strength with it.

"Goneld, you fool," said Merodach. The human appeared at the foot of the stairs, only just putting up his bow. "You could have killed him and saved us the trouble."

"Doubtful," said Sodrinye. "Even piercing the head will not always kill an ice atronach."

"That was an atronach?" said Goneld. He rubbed one wrist. Sodrinye couldn't see the chafe marks, but she knew they were there. "Explains why he's so bad at tying knots." His voice was still uneven, and Sodrinye held herself still as vision blocked out sight. _The Imperial dragged into the citadel, wounded and bound. Goneld lying shackled while churls kicked at his ribs with boots of Dremora steel. Goneld caged in a tall tower in a land hellish and alien to him. _The taint of fear and rage, familiar as breath, overlay all.

Sodrinye blinked forcibly, clearing the vision away. "Come closer, so that I can see you," she said. Menien Goneld approached slowly and stiffly, and as he swam into focus Sodrinye saw the muscle jumping in his temple. He stopped a couple of yards away, in view but not in reach.

"What you did _was _foolish," she said levelly. "My sister thought the atronach was worthy of speech. That means he is dangerous."

"He tied my hands," said Goneld, enunciating through his clenched teeth.

"I understand," said Sodrinye. "I, in your place, have shown less restraint than you did." _ That is why I have ten souls instead of none at all. _"But I am constrained by weakness of body. You are not. If you cannot control yourself you are dangerous to all of us."

"Then kill me," said Goneld. "I'm not who I was when I went into the Kvatch gate. I'm not fit for human company."

"_Human_ company," said Ebel-Merodach. One side of a black lip curled above his jagged teeth.

"You will be," said Sodrinye. "Yours is an adaptable race, perhaps more so than ours." Merodach, to his credit, was intelligent enough not to argue with this. Sodrinye set her head on one side, considering what she knew of Goneld. "Besides, you want to live. You would not have come with us otherwise."

"I didn't know," said Goneld. He turned away abruptly. "It's been two years. Too long."

"There is no _too long _or _too short_," said Sodrinye. "There is only _now._"

Goneld stood with his unprotected back to them for a while, breathing silently. His shoulders twitched once or twice. Sodrinye waited patiently. She had seen kyn who had been summoned into Nirn and kept there in bondage for a long time. They were often a little mad when they came back. It was not at all surprising a human should react the same way, and more besides – not _all _mortals would torture a summoned kynaz.

"All right," said Menien Goneld finally. He turned slowly to face her again. "So what are you going to do now?"

"Move," said Merodach. "The atronach knows this place. We cannot stay here."

"Yes," said Sodrinye. "And I have only a little time left before my strength fails again. We must go now."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The pink sparks cleared, leaving Laure staring at Tychicus Varen's broad back with her heart pounding in her ears. A dark red stain was still spreading from the arrow under his right shoulder. It was dim around them, and the blue Ayleid light had gone, replaced by a golden glow. Laure stared around wildly. They were in a low room with stone walls, and candles on the wooden tables, and a small fountain on the back wall. There were no windows, robbing her of any context – _No, wait. I know that hanging on the wall. We're back in the Undercroft in Bruma._

She shook herself. _Essentials, girl. Pay attention. _"Brother Varen, shall I remove the arrow?"

"If you would," said Tychicus Varen. "I don't believe it is barbed."

"Er... would you like to sit down first?" said Laure.

"No, thank you," said Varen politely. Laure waited for him to set his feet. Then she braced one hand against his left shoulder blade, took hold of the upward-jutting shaft with the other, and pulled. Varen did not so much as tense the muscles in his shoulder, and the arrow came free fairly easily. It hadn't sunk in far. _That man was firing down the stairs. The angle can't have been very good._Brother Varen had not made a sound.

Laure stepped back as he turned around, and the residual charge from his healing spell felt like static on her skin. She took a deep breath. She felt suddenly sick, as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach.

"Are you all right?" said Laure.

"Oh, yes," said Tychicus Varen. "I'm not easily harmed. Are _you_all right, Sister Laure?"

"I think so," said Laure. She straightened under the gaze of those unblinking eyes, determined not to make him ashamed of her. "I'm... I'm not hurt anywhere, I don't think."

"A little ill, perhaps?" said Tychicus Varen gently. Laure blushed. "You have not been accustomed to violence, and you are very young, for a Breton. It is only natural."

"I'm sorry that I wasn't more help," said Laure.

"You were no hindrance," said the priest. "That's not a bad start. The fault in this case was mine, not yours." He went slowly to the cupboard and put up his satchel. Laure pulled out a chair at one of the long tables and slung down her pack as she sat. Tychicus Varen came and sat across from her, folding his blunt hands on the table. "Are you sorry that you followed me?"

"No," said Laure truthfully. Shaken as she felt by recent events, she knew herself well enough to know that the torment of curiosity unsatisfied would have been worse.

"Nor am I. Let us say no more about that. I am sorry that I exposed you to danger when it could have been avoided. Had I been less quick to mistrust Menien Goneld..." Varen opened his hands briefly. "For that I truly am sorry."

"What are we going to do now?" said Laure.

"Vision fails me in the presence of a Sleeper," said Tychicus Varen. "I will wait here, and mend my robe, and pray. Perhaps I will be able to divine again presently. I suggest you return to your ordinary work, if you are able."

"And then what?" said Laure.

"I don't know," said Varen simply.

It was something she'd never heard him say. Laure felt faintly uneasy as she watched the atronach priest turn to make his way up the stairs into the Chapel proper. _And in the meantime, there are two more daedra loose in this plane. What might they do, before he recovers his insight?_

The voice of the unknown Imperial played in a loop in her head, over and over. _Next time you hit me from behind, you'd better kill me. _And what if he had shot her, instead of Tychicus Varen? What if she had bled to death before there was time to heal her? Laure shivered. It was not without reason that the priest had put her so quickly behind him.

"May the Light defend us," said Sister Laure.

It was not particularly reassuring that there was no answer.

---

Menien Goneld ranged silently ahead of the two Dremora, trying to recover his calm. They were on their way East from the Ayleid ruin, a direction chosen because it led away from the Imperial City and deeper into the wilderness. The day was bright and calm, with only a faint breeze disturbing the grass between the trees.

Their pace was necessarily slow, largely because even now Sodrinye could not walk very quickly. Goneld remembered how hard her skin had been, when she had taken his hand to bring them here, and began to suspect that might have something to do with the stiff way she moved. _And why the big caitiff treats her the way he does. If her whole skin is hard as a rock, she won't bruise easily._

He was beginning to gain some understanding of these two, and that bothered him. He'd observed the Kyn quite a lot while he was caged, even to the point of learning their language, which was not in itself very easy. It had been something to do to keep his mind busy and himself sane. For two years – and it had seemed much longer – he had seen no sentient creature without red eyes and two horns. For two years he had accustomed his eyes to the dim and his skin to the feel of hard metal, his body to near starvation. And now here he was, in the clear light with clothes on his back, and it was driving him nearly insane.

_Why?_Menien demanded of himself, not for the first time nor the second. _Why didn't I just tell the two priests I was a prisoner, and run away and come back with the Legion at my back? There are surely those surviving in Kvatch who would recognize me, even the way I look now. _

Goneld stopped at the top of a small rise, watching and listening for any ambush, and then glanced back over his shoulder. Sodrinye was looking around herself, shading her half-blind eyes as she walked. Ebel-Merodach went beside her, pretending not to be carefully watching in case of an unexpected stumble. Goneld was not a spiritually perceptive individual, but he could almost sense the debt-bond stretching between them. He was beginning to see it almost as ordinary. There were moments when he caught himself thinking that_he _was debtsworn, doggedly bound to follow Sodrinye the Sleeper until he died. But he wasn't Dremora. He was human.

Goneld snorted softly as he turned and went on. _Yes, and humans don't always _pay _our debts. Even now I can't claim that's better than the way they do things. They'll lie to each other and stab each other in the back and torture one another to death, and it's all part of the big game. Nobody loses a life without getting another one and a chance at revenge. It never ends._

But this... This surely was the endgame. By his own count, Menien Goneld was forty-two years old. That was old, to be no more than a corporal in the Kvatch City Watch. Goneld smiled grimly to himself. He had been an Imperial Legionnaire four years ago. _Water under the bridge. _He'd never married, after he was busted back to private and his enlistment ran out. _Thank the gods for small mercies. _And now here he was, tearing across the countryside with a pair of daedra from the nearest thing to Hell one could find in Temple theology.

_It didn't have to be this way. If only he hadn't tied my hands, maybe I wouldn't have lost it... _Goneld clamped down on that memory and a great many more, lest he lose his concentration and start twitching again. He'd been tied up and beaten too many times. Every time he saw something bondlike coming at his hands, he couldn't stop seeing the red boots coming at his ribs. Sometimes _they _had paralyzed him first, too. There were plenty of krynvel – plenty of_mages, _he insisted to himself – who could do that. They hadn't even really asked him any questions, after the first time. They'd just done it because they could.

It was also what they would have expected from him, if they had been _his_prisoners. He understood that now. He wished he didn't. He wanted desperately to go on hating them with every fiber, but that would require him also to hate Sodrinye the Sleeper, who had saved him. Further, she seemed to understand what was wrong with his head, something he doubted he could have explained even to another human. She might exploit that, but if so she would not do it while pretending otherwise. That might be a Kyn way, but it wasn't hers.

And he could not hate Ebel-Merodach, who for all his malevolent drive was stuck exactly where Goneld was. _Only worse, in one way. Debtbond is _real _to him, as real as love and hate are to me. _

And so Menien Goneld, who had once given his all for his fellow mortals, found himself on the side of the demons. He should have died in the cage, he thought miserably. None of this would have happened then.

_And the worst of it is that the Sleeper is right. I _do_want to live, gods damn me._

The sound of footsteps stopped behind him. Goneld turned quickly. Sodrinye stood with her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold. "It is time," she said. "Merodach, stand by Menien Goneld."

"Why? What's going on?" Goneld said.

"The life I took is gone," Sodrinye said. She knelt in the path with a soft _thump. _"And I must drink. There is no time to hunt now, and the one I summon will not want you close by."

"If you are eaten it will be entirely your own fault, loathsome one," said Merodach, but he came to stand beside Goneld.

"Xivilai do not eat the flesh of Kyn," said Sodrinye, and raised one hand.

"_Xivilai?_" said Menien Goneld, and then there was a flash of golden light and a form coalesced out of the air beside the Sleeper.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: In Oblivion the Xivilai are a "creature" rather than a "character" race, so they don't speak unless one is using a mod for the PC such as AlienSlof's playable Xivilai. Lore, however, pegs them as a sentient race similar to Dremora, but less social. I've decided that this makes it likely they are able to communicate verbally._

Chapter 15

Menien Goneld had never seen a Xivilai. That fiercely independent race does not willingly ally itself with Dremora, and for that reason there would never be one near his cage in the Reaper's Sprawl. He had heard them discussed, but physical description was seldom part of that. He certainly didn't expect the eight-foot giant that suddenly towered beside Sodrinye. Some distant kinship with the Kyn might be traced in the fierce and angular features, the pointed ears and horns, but there the resemblance ended. The Xivilai wore nothing but a collar and a kilt of strange design. His skin was smooth, dark blue. Red tattoo marks glowed around biceps and wrists and ankles. The heavily clawed hands and feet were big even for the size of the creature, unbound by boots or gauntlets.

The Xivilai hefted an axe of green glass in one taloned hand. He turned a baleful yellow eye on Goneld and Merodach.

"Your enemies?" he said. He spoke the Kyntongue with a curious accent. The voice was about what Goneld had expected. That, too, showed a kinship with the Dremora race, possessing the treble echo that distorted words and made tone hard to interpret.

"No," said Sodrinye. Her voice weakened audibly as she spoke. "I am debtor to these. You will do them no harm."

"Hm," said the creature disapprovingly. Beside Goneld, Merodach looked back at it with a matching expression of disdain. The Xivilai visibly dismissed them both as it looked around. "So you have reached Mundus, little Sleeper. What ails you this time?"

"I drank a life, and it is gone," said Sodrinye.

"Ah. And now the departing soul seeks to draw you after, I apprehend." The Xivilai sat gracefully on the road, bringing his face closer to Sodrinye's as she knelt. He bent one knee and draped his free arm over it. The deltoid was bigger than the kynaz's head. "You are very sure of yourself, to summon me while you are thus weak."

"You can do me no harm," Sodrinye said, now very quietly. She slid sideways from her knees into a sitting position. "But you can refuse me. I have permitted it, even to the loss of my last incarnation."

Goneld glanced sideways at Ebel-Merodach. The caitiff had folded his arms and was watching with the martyred expression of one whose worst suspicions are confirmed. _It's not something most kyn would do. Hells, I can't even imagine a krynvelhat talking to a summoned the way she is._

"I remember," said the Xivilai. "Were I of _your _race, I would take that only for a sign of weakness, little one." He laid the glass axe in the road and adjusted his position so that he sat crosslegged. "And why does this tiresome task fall to me, and not to your debtsworn?"

"He would not survive it," said Sodrinye. She lay passive as the Xivilai scooped her into his lap.

The Xivilai huffed, a sound more animal than human. "So spend him. That is what debtsworn are _for._"

Sodrinye's next statement was too faint for Menien Goneld to hear.

"I guessed as much," said the Xivilai, with evident resignation. He reached for the axe with one hand as he cradled Sodrinye's head with the other. Goneld had guessed by this point what was about to happen, partly because Ebel-Merodach was covering his eyes with one hand, so he was not startled to see the great creature carefully nick his wrist with the blade of the axe. He set down the weapon and held the wound up to Sodrinye's mouth.

They sat that way for a while, the great head bent over the small one. If the loss of blood made any difference to the Xivilai, he did not show it. Presently the monster withdrew his hand, picked up his axe, and stood up with regal grace. He held Sodrinye easily in the crook of one arm. Her head lolled, and Menien saw her closed eyes. Merodach watched them warily, but he didn't draw his weapon, so Goneld did not either.

"Come and take her before my time here expires," said the Xivilai. "I cannot harm you against her order, even while she sleeps."

"I am not afraid," said Merodach, and went forward to receive the Sleeper. The Xivilai grunted approvingly, as if he had passed some sort of test.

"She thinks you are worthy. I doubt it."

Merodach glanced at Sodrinye – making sure, Goneld thought, that she slept before he spoke. "There is cause for doubt," the caitiff said. He hefted the Sleeper onto one shoulder.

"Hm," said the Xivilai. Then he dissolved into a shower of gold sparks. No trace remained, except for a few drops of dark blood in the dust.

"I've been inside a cage in Hell for two years," said Menien Goneld. "And that was still among the weirdest things I've ever seen."

"Shut up," said Ebel-Merodach, and started up the path again. Goneld shrugged and followed him, grateful for any distraction.

"Could be worse," said Goneld. "She could be dead. You'd really be in trouble then."

"So you have said," said Merodach. "And that was not a request."

"I didn't think it was," said Menien Goneld. "Do all Xivilai talk like that?"

There was a brief silence. Goneld waited patiently for the caitiff to weigh his desire to swat Goneld against the likelihood that he would not succeed while carrying Sodrinye. Merodach eventually said, "I have never heard one speak more than a word."

"You mean like '_Ghat_?'" said Goneld, using the imperative word in the Kyntongue.

"Exactly," said Merodach.

"And did you?" said Goneld.

"Did I what?" growled Merodach.

"Die."

"No. Though I did not escape unmarked." Merodach bared jagged teeth at the memory. "The creature was badly outnumbered. It was eventually overrun."

"That must've taken a lot of Dremora," said Goneld. "That thing didn't look clumsy for its size."

"They generally are not," said Ebel-Merodach. "Most also are able to summon."

"God's blood," said Goneld. Merodach had no apparent comment. They walked on for a while. Eventually Goneld said, "I didn't hear the Sleeper make any predictions after we saw the priests."

"The presence of the aedryn may have interfered with her ability to divine," said Ebel-Merodach. "Aedric and daedric magicka do not coexist easily. I do not understand how the atronach is able to function thus." He exhaled once, a soft _hrmph. _"But I am only a caitiff. I cannot pretend to understand the ways of krynvelhat."

"Would that be how you ended up debtsworn to a Sleeper to begin with?" said Menien Goneld. There was a dark mutter from the caitiff which Goneld interpreted without difficulty. "You can't kill me. Nobody else will shoot atronachs for you."

Merodach snorted contemptuously. "Badly."

"Practice makes perfect," said Menien Goneld.

"I sincerely hope so," said Merodach. "Given that he may find us again wherever we go."

"Neither atronachs nor priests of Arkay are a breed likely to give up easily," agreed Goneld. "You do realize that if she's not up and around again before that happens, we're all dead."

"The fact did not escape my notice," Merodach said, with an air of irritated resignation which Goneld was beginning to associate with him. "But the aedryn will be crippled by the allegiance he has chosen. There is a greater threat."

"Which is what?" said Goneld.

"Sodrinye is not the only Sleeper in Nirn," said Ebel-Merodach. "Nor is she the only one capable of reaching this plane."

"Oh." Goneld had momentarily forgotten this. He could feel his stomach muscles knot up just thinking about it. Humans or mer in such a situation, particularly persecuted women, might feel some bond of sisterhood. That was a very dangerous assumption to make about Dremora. _Sodrinye isn't like other kyn – even Merodach isn't quite sure what she's going to do next. And that makes her more dangerous still. To me. To him. To everyone we meet._

Not, Goneld thought bitterly, that he was setting any benchmarks for reliability himself recently.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Those who read _TFC: The Cold Light of Day_ and _TFC: A Second Cold Light_ may recall the (invented) Dremora concept of close emotional attachment as inevitably onesided and essentially a fatal curse. The word I used for this is rhedek, so I'll stick to that._

Chapter 16

Sodrinye paced. Not in any literal sense; no doubt her body was still being bumped along over Ebel-Merodach's broad shoulder. She could not tell, and probably would be unable to do so until there was a distinct threat or she had rested enough to regain her strength. _Such as it is. _

Ordinarily, this time would be very busy, occupied fully with dream and vision. She should be traveling to many places past and present, in Nirn and Oblivion. That was not happening. Precognition seemed to have utterly deserted her, and though she actively grasped at the threads of actuality, they slid through her fingers and left her no further than before.

If the truth were known, she was as anxious as it is possible for the unreactive subrace of Sleepers to be. She had barely survived one crisis. She ought to be anticipating, preparing for the next one. She had concluded that she could in some sense depend on Goneld and Merodach to go where vision took her, but that was useless without the vision itself. And so she stayed, trapped in the gray nothing that is a Sleeper's limbo, oscillating in ever-shrinking circles. She could feel Nirn and Oblivion near her, but this place was neither. Only a very thin partition divorced it from the Voidstreams between planes, and sometimes she suspected that was imaginary; it was completely possible that she was simply unable to perceive other souls in the Void because the bombardment of voices would drive a mere kynaz mad.

The one small comfort was that if proximity to the atronach had done this much damage to her clairvoyance, it had almost certainly done the same to him. Sodrinye might have felt better about this if she had been more certain that was a good thing. An utterly blind enemy might strike out in panic as Goneld had done, when the memory of pain and terror had overmastered him. The strict discipline it must have taken to attain human form told in Tychicus Varen's favor, but elemental creatures could not be depended upon. Sodrinye, who could deal with almost anything it was possible to summon, generally chose not to summon atronachs. The Xivilai had shown himself willing to be reasoned with, albeit for reasons she did not completely understand. Most lesser daedra were able to sense a fundamental sympathy, her own imprisoned self reluctant to impose on them a bondage as great as her own. And not all daedra had the kyn tendency to equate sympathy with weakness.

She was sure it would come down, in the end, to Tychicus Varen. Was he the slow and chilly mind that he pretended, or had he simply never encountered a real threat to himself here in Nirn? The distinction was not a paltry one -

"Sister?"

Sodrinye pulled herself to a halt as she heard the voice. She recognized it at once. In Nirn it might be possible to hide the presence or absence of power. Not here. In this indeterminate place, a fellow Sleeper's mind glowed like a beacon.

"Drurinye," Sodrinye said, and turned to face her sister.

---

Menien and Merodach went on marching to the East. Ebel-Merodach kept a wary eye on his surroundings as the terrain began to change. For a place not at all enamored of violent overthrow, Nirn seemed to have a ridiculously inconsistent geography. He did not care for the feel of the landscape changing underneath his feet. The path was growing a little steeper, inclining upwards, and there were more trees around them.

Presently Ebel-Merodach could hear Goneld's breathing. "Damnation to all mortal weakness," he muttered in the Kyntongue, but he slowed his pace. He was growing more tired himself, if the truth were known. He had been accustomed to heavy armor in his own plane, but heavy armor under a hot, alien sun with an extra hundred and fifty-odd pounds of weight to carry was beginning to tax him.

"Mortal weakness is damnation enough," Goneld replied. He turned his tonsured head toward the left, from which direction a low bubbling had been audible for some time. "I hear water running. I'll refill my bottle."

"Be quick about it," said Merodach, but the moment Goneld was out of sight he unslung Drurinye from his shoulders and laid her on the turf beside the path. She, at least, should not be thirsty for some time. Merodach had no idea what she had done to convince a Xivilai to voluntarily share from its own veins, but such a draught must be potent indeed. _She does not lack the capacity to bend others to her will, or neither I nor Menien Goneld would be here. _The day's events had demonstrated amply that she had not lost the ability to shock him.

And yet...

He could not have spoken with the Xivilai as he had today (and was he already thinking in terms of _today _and _tonight?_) before he had met Sodrinye. He felt more powerfully than ever the enormous distance between _today _and that first moment when Sodrinye had healed his wounds and bound him. Oblivion was further away than space or time could make it, now.

_In Oblivion loss of life is inconvenient, no more. Here the loss of one incarnation is the loss of all. And to persist we must do what was once unthinkable._ He recognized at last that this logic was inescapable; and besides, who would judge him here? Not Sodrinye. And certainly not Goneld, who was so confused he barely knew his own race.

---

"I am glad you're still alive," said the other Sleeper. Through the gray, Sodrinye caught a glimpse of a pair of dark little horns in the purple glow. Drurinye's were very short, but she was obviously older in her current incarnation than Sodrinye was. _She must have deliberately cut them._

"Why?" said Sodrinye dryly. "Before _that _situation disintegrated utterly, the atronach told me your will is not your own."

"It's more complex than that," said Drurinye. "But you'll learn this for yourself. This plane has the power to change us, and not only Sleepers. If we are denied contact with the place of our making, and do not die, we adapt."

"_We,_" Sodrinye said.

"You are changing already," said Drurinye. There was a flash of teeth through the dim. "And so is your caitiff. You know it to be true."

Sodrinye thought about what she had said to the Xivilai. "Yes," she said.

"Varen is a reasonable being. Onesimus and I have dealt with him to our benefit, albeit usually from a distance. I've had the experience of being visionless as you now are. I did not care for it."

"No more do I," said Sodrinye, more dryly yet. "No more, I hope, does he."

A flicker of caution made itself felt through the ether. "Will you take advice from one who has... spent time in this plane?" said Drurinye. The question was in the Kyntongue, but the words _spent time _were in Cyrodilic.

"Probably," said Sodrinye honestly.

"Be careful of that Imperial who follows you. Partial understanding is more dangerous than complete ignorance."

"But you don't advise me to kill him," said Sodrinye. "Nor leave him behind."

There was a shadow of a shrug – one shoulder and little movement, the way a Sleeper would always do. "As I said, Nirn changes us. And I think he has a part to play yet. Do you not see it?"

"I see nothing," Sodrinye said. "And..." She debated with herself. Drurinye was not what she had expected, but she knew herself to be more vulnerable than customarily. _Some risk must be taken, or I would not be here. _"I am very tired, Sister. I had hoped to find escape from conflict here, and instead I find confusion. Pain."

"I can testify that the confusion passes," said Drurinye. "As much as it ever can, for a seer. Pain... That will depend, I'm afraid." Sodrinye caught a glimpse of some emotion that was only a little familiar, and completely terrifying. "I know my Onesimus, but I don't know your debtsworn. There may be a limit to how much he can change. And if he cannot reach the same place toward which you are moving, you will suffer."

"And what place is that?" said Sodrinye.

"_Ka rhedek," _said Drurinye, and whirled away into the gray.

Sodrinye shrank in on herself at the words, and then she was shooting upwards and her eyes opened on darkness.

---

It was dark in the Chapel at Bruma. Everyone had gone to bed, and the night outside was cold. Sleet poured down and rendered the steep streets lethal to man, mer and beast. Sometimes lightning flickered, lighting up the high, colorful windows. Images of the nine Divines stared down solemnly, writ forever in the glass, and the mixture of colors that leached through bathed the great Altar of the Nine in eerie light.

Tychicus Varen stood before the great stone wheel that was the altar, head bowed. Time was passing, and time was what he could not spare. And, in his experience, where aedra were concerned it never hurt to ask. He was aware of Sister Laure, sitting at the top of the stairway to the Undercroft and peering around the divider at him, but he chose not to acknowledge this.

"I will need to find them," he said quietly. "And I am no tracker. Nor would I risk another soul by hiring one. I know you would not wish it. Therefore return to me what I have lost, that I may carry the light forward."

Lightning flashed outside. Varen waited patiently. The elements in Nirn were strange, but he had grown used to them, and mere weather would never pose much threat to him. "There is none better suited to this work than I am," he said. "Would you have chosen me if there were?"

He did not quite hear the voice that said _No. _He felt it through the bottoms of his feet. Then the spiral of white light rose from the center of the Altar of the Nine and burst outward, bathing him in the glow. Varen stiffened as he was momentarily blinded, and then the vision in front of him was not what he ought to be seeing.

_A shallow canyon, barely a dip in the landscape, with a little lake at the bottom of it; and at one side of the lake, half-submerged, lay the ruin of a fort. The eye of observation tracked closer, taking in the mossy walls and the silence where nothing lived; even fish generally detoured around this place._

_Sometimes, when the wind died down, there was a rattle of bone against iron._

_Where? _Varen persisted silently. The vision flew dizzingly downward, as if he were flying up into the sky, and he saw the shape of the Eastern mountains. _I understand. _It was not a place he had seen before, but he would be able to find it. If nothing else, a priest of Arkay would be drawn to a place of such unrestful death.

The image cleared slowly, and he was looking at the Altar again. Varen knelt, offering his silent thanks, and then rose smoothly and went toward the Undercroft. Laure froze, too slow to dive back down the stairwell. He stopped to look down at her. She blushed as she sat there on the top step.

"Sister Laure," said Tychicus Varen.

"Yes, Brother," said Laure. She did not, to her credit, make any excuses.

"If you are going to come with me again, you had better find your knapsack," said Varen. Laure stood up quickly, and he saw a quick flash of white teeth as she grinned.

"Yes, of course," she said, and vanished back down the stairs.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Goneld's "less than human" statement is a reflection of his prejudices, not necessarily the view of the author (or the lore)._

Chapter 17

"Worthless fools!"

The Kynmarcher of the Citadel of Crushing Burdens paced the platform of his sigil chamber, swearing at the red floor beneath his boots. His kynreeves stood around him, allowing plenty of space and staying out of his way. He was less likely to slay them at random than some other Citadel lords might have been, but that didn't mean it had never happened.

The one whom he thought of as the least useless shook her head. She brushed a speck of rock dust from her black robe. "I did suggest that it would have been better to go yourself." She had to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the hum of the sigil stone. The glowing orb hovered over the platform a few yards from them, showering yellow sparks around it.

"Be silent, krynvelhat bitch," said the Kynmarcher. "Lest I rip out your guts and strangle you with them."

"Yes, Milord," said the kynreeve smugly. He knew she believed he would not do any such thing. She'd gone well out of her way to prove herself both a useful subordinate and unambitious enough not to pose a threat to his rule, which was to say she would inform on her fellow kynreeves in a heartbeat if there was any breath of conspiracy. This meant the other kynreeves hated her passionately, but most of them were also bright enough to let her do the talking. Her name was Ghatha.

"And you, Zalacath," said the Kynmarcher, waving at another one. "Go set a watch for when Belteshazzar and that useless kynval reincarnate. Then kill them again. Twice."

"Yes, Milord," said the kynreeve, and turned with alacrity to descend the membranous ramp down to the next level.

"There may yet be a way to recover the Sleeper," said Ghatha.

"Is that so?" said the Kynmarcher. He stopped pacing and turned to glare at her. "For your sake, it had better be more effective than your last idea. Now I have two citadels to police and not enough kynvals with which to do it, at least until some of the maggots from Natural Disaster reincarnate and make up their minds to change clans."

"Not soon enough," said Ghatha. "My Lord knows that the Bent Axe clan is watching us, and has been for some time. If we appear weakened they will no doubt find it possible to convince the Bleeding Eyes to join them."

"Of course I know it," snarled the Kynmarcher. "And how do you intend to recover a Sleeper who has gone to Nirn, foolish kynreeve? _You _cannot open a gate to go after her. Not after the Great Closing."

"No, Lord," said Ghatha. "But I can reach into the Void to summon. Every magus in your service can do so."

"The Sleeper is not in the Void," said the Kynmarcher.

"But she is," said Ghatha. She looked at him sideways from a crimson eye. "No Sleeper ever fully leaves it. It is the source of much of their power, and all of their weakness."

"And how do _you _know this?" demanded the Lord of Crushing Burdens.

"I have pursued my own researches," said Ghatha. "And my Lord will recall that we tortured to death one or two of the mages from Natural Disaster upon their reincarnation."

"Ah, yes. The early returners." The Kynmarcher showed his teeth, ever so briefly. "But you had better be right this time, kynreeve. Or you will be viewing the Voidstreams from a much more intimate vantage. Is that clear?"

---

They had made camp for the night in the shade of some tall pine trees, and Goneld was finishing a late supper of charred giant rat, when the Sleeper made a choked sound. Menien tossed the remains of his drumstick into the fire and wiped his fingers on his fur greaves. He'd made a sort of pallet of collected boughs for Merodach to put her on, and then had to explain why that was a good idea up here – apparently there weren't ground-dwelling insects in Oblivion.

Sodrinye made the noise again, but more quietly. Goneld eyed her warily, trying to decide whether to call the big Dremora. This dilemma resolved itself quickly as the Sleeper flopped one arm around, found leverage against the ground, and pushed herself into a sitting position. It took him a moment to realize she was breathing hard. For one thing, her robe was loose, and for another, "breathing hard" for the Sleeper was very close to "breathing normally" for any other Dremora.

"Nightmare?" said Goneld.

For a moment he thought she hadn't heard him. Then she turned her head slowly, fixing him with a half-blind stare across the low fire. "No," she said. Her dual voice had a peculiar echo, for just a second, and then the impression of suppressed panic died away. She went on in her usual thin monotone. "I have spoken with Drurinye."

"How?" said Goneld.

Sodrinye leaned back on her elbows. "She is a Sleeper," she said, as if that were any explanation.

"Can you reach the ones in Oblivion, too?" said Goneld.

"Not easily," said Sodrinye. "The place we would meet is large, and they are nearer to the other side of it than to this one. And I would not wish to do so. Most are in the position I was in when Ebel-Merodach found me, or worse. They are owned. To find them is to be found by those who own them."

"It's not as if they can easily come after you here," said Goneld. "Is it?" He heard Ebel-Merodach's heavy footstep approaching from his right, and turned to see the caitiff step into the small clearing where they had set up camp. They were a full hundred yards off the road, the fire sheltered by the boles of tall trees.

"Not _easily_," said Ebel-Merodach. "That does not mean it cannot be done. A Sleeper is a prize to be grasped at for one in the position of a Kynmarcher."

"So I gathered," said Goneld.

"Have you seen anything, loathsome one?" Merodach demanded of Sodrinye. He came forward to squat next to the fire.

"No," said Sodrinye. "Nor will for a little while yet." 

"How long?" said Goneld.

"I cannot tell," said Sodrinye.

"You are not much good to us without vision," said Ebel-Merodach. "Merely a very heavy weight."

"You are strong," Sodrinye said dryly. "And I cannot recover my power until I recover my strength. Bring me another life. A white soul, which cannot draw me after it." She lay back heavily and closed her eyes. Goneld and Ebel-Merodach looked at each other.

"I'm guessing she doesn't mean another rat," said Goneld. Ebel-Merodach shook his head.

"Too small," he said. "Were we in Dagon's plane I would look for an atronach or a daedroth."

"Hm," said Goneld. "Something more than animal, less than human?"

"Less than kyn, yes," said Merodach.

"All right," said Goneld. He nudged the fire with one foot. "Not many ogres in this part of the country. Tomorrow we'll start looking for a spriggan."

---

There had been a few new faces in the Chapel at Bruma recently. The deaths of several priests in the ruin of Anga, some of them from Bruma, had left vacancies in that sanctuary.

One of those newcomers had been Laure, of course.

One had been a pretty young Bosmeri, who had not lasted long on account of a lateral career change into the service of Dibella. (But that is a longer story which is told elsewhere.)

And one...

One was Marcus Barnabus. Marcus was a broad-shouldered young Imperial of graceful mien, with a quiet way to him and an entirely forgettable face. He was good with a blade. This was not unusual among the more dedicated servants of Arkay. He did, however, have unusually good hearing for his race – and a certain facility for quietly creeping up next to closed doors.

Marcus wasn't quite sure exactly who or what Brother Varen was, but the older priest had always seemed to have good intentions. So it disappointed and disturbed him when he heard Tychicus Varen speaking to the young Breton about invaders from Hell. It disturbed him even more that Varen did not apparently have any intention of informing anyone about this incursion of Oblivion, despite the fact that it threatened a breech in the precious barrier between planes.

He sent off his report as quickly as he could, but he was still a little behind them starting out that early morning. That was all right. He knew where they were going; Tychicus Varen had mentioned the ruin of Sercen. This was just as well, because Marcus did not care to follow them closely. Varen's unusual percipience was well known, and it had been his own stroke of luck that Tychicus appeared to have suffered some insult to his precognitive facility at the time Marcus had overheard them talking.

His orders caught up with him on the East side of the City some days later. Another hard young Imperial caught up with him as well. He brought along an older Argonian whom Marcus did not know.

"Wonderful," said the newcomer now. "Four of us against a demon army."

"Not an army," Marcus corrected mildly. "At least, Tychicus Varen doesn't think so."

"Either way," said the man, whose name was Lybiad. He looked very much like Marcus physically, which wasn't surprising – the Emperor's Blades, after all, had to be inconspicuous – but was inclined to be a little more talkative. "You ever fought Dremora, Marcus?"

"Yes," said Marcus. "At the big gate."

"Then you know they fight like madmen," said Lybiad, apparently unimpressed by this record. Marcus, gauging the parallel scars trailing down his neck toward his collar, suspected he had not come from the direction of the Imperial City merely by accident. _He was probably there the day Akatosh came down. _"And they're _not _easy to creep up on, not even in that armor they wear."

"I know," said Marcus. "We don't have to be close. Just close enough to see what's there and get out again."

"This one likes it not," said the Argonian, speaking for the first time. He paced just outside the light of their small fire, and Marcus glimpsed the shadow of his tail as it swung to and fro. "This thing you gave me – are you sure it belonged to this priest?"

"Very sure," said Marcus. "I cut it from his spare robe."

"It does not smell right," muttered the Argonian.

"If you can't follow it, speak up," said Lybiad. "No point in us walking all the way to Sercen if we're stopped dead right there."

"Follow it, yes," said the Argonian. "This one could scent out a shadow crossing a rock. But this one is not sure what you find at the end of the trail will be an Imperial priest."

"It doesn't matter," said Marcus. "We'll go and we'll look, and we'll report back. If there's a real threat, we'll have a squad down from the City in half a tick."

"You know that's not how it works," said Lybiad quietly. He and Marcus looked at each other.

"Yes," said Marcus. "I know." _We're going to be far out of civilization. Not even a squad of Blades can get from the City to Sercen soon enough to do any good, if Varen's little group of demons is going to try and open a gate. We'll have to put an end to it ourselves, or die trying._

He listened to the Argonian make another lap around the fire. He had no doubts about his ability to use the crystal ball in his small knapsack. Divination was an uncertain skill, even for simple communication rather than precognition, but it was a very necessary one for a field agent. "I'd rather we didn't have to do anything final about the girl," Marcus said eventually.

"She's complicit," said Lybiad. "At the very least."

"She's not nineteen yet, and she's just doing what an elder priest tells her to do," said Marcus. "She probably thinks she's on some grand mission for Arkay." He shot Lybiad a wry glance. "Anyway, it's not our decision to make. Maybe all we _will _have to do is send off our signal and leave."

"Yeah," said Lybiad. "And maybe Tracks-Too-Well will sprout wings and fly away."

"This one wishes he could," said the Argonian.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Eek. I apologize for the long time between updates, but between the holidays and my having lost almost this whole chapter and having to rewrite it, well, meh. I suppose one can hope this version is better than the original would have been..._

Chapter 18

Ghatha had set up her laboratory in the lowest level of the Citadel, a cavernous room near the foundation and well below ground level. In Oblivion this meant the room was also full of lava which had leaked in around the foundation. Daedric construction is able to work around this, however, and a number of slabs of something analogous to stone crossed what would otherwise be a shoulder-deep lake of liquid fire. It lent an orange light to the interior that was, if anything, a little brighter than the ordinary ambient illumination of Dagon's plane.

Her workbench sat against the wall furthest from the base of the spiral stairway, on a slab as large as a castle drawing room. A gantry with a great cage hung out over the lava. There was also a much smaller platform further out in the fiery pool, just big enough for a good summoner to target.

Ghatha was more than a good summoner, she thought with some complacency. She looked at the cage one more time. A few dips in the lava generally took care of any inconvenient remains, and it looked like her assistant had been careful to erase any trace of the last prisoner she'd brought down here. Dipping in lava probably would not be useful to her at the moment, but the special modifications she had made should do the trick.

"That is the last of the prisoners," she said to her current assistant, a kynval named Baioth. "Bring me the potion."

He turned to retrieve the relevant bottle from the workbench. Ghatha lowered the cage over the platform and locked the door carefully. The inside of the bars glittered pale violet, a coating which had taken considerable work to accomplish. Not Ghatha's work, of course, but she had made sure Baioth did an accurate job. Now she received the potion bottle from him, glancing sideways as she did so. He grinned briefly and retired back to the workbench. Part of the reason he was still her assistant was that she had quickly learned what it took to motivate him, and he was attractive enough that it was no chore. Hopefully, there would be time for that later.

Ghatha opened the container and sniffed, just in case, then downed it in one swallow. Magicka hissed down her throat and out to the tips of her fingers. She tossed the bottled into the lava, stared into the cage, and concentrated. _"Atronach dacha," _she said.

A yellow swirl of sparks coalesced inside the cage and became a daedra. Ghatha had calculated the dose of the magicka potion correctly; the details of its armor and its conspicuously female form said the creature was old enough and powerful enough to have a good command of its own shape. A peak that looked something like hair and something like a tongue of flame wavered behind its head. A dark mask over the face hid any shortcomings in fine detail, but Ghatha suspected that was more tradition than necessity. Though it was taller than Ghatha, the daedra's proportions were a little foreshortened, big hands and feet and head for the size of its body. A mortal might have said it looked almost childlike, but that was not a thought likely to occur to a kynaz.

"Atronach," she said. The creature made a noise like fat on a griddle and threw a fireball at her. It impacted harmlessly against the cage bars. "Yes, I am not strong enough to hold you solely by will. But you will obey me all the same." The atronach hissed and threw itself against the cage. It did not so much as rattle, and the daedra stumbled back. It stared at Ghatha for a moment, its whole posture redolent of disbelief. Behind the holes in the mask, fire raged.

"Ah, yes, your new home," said Ghatha. "Aside from its obvious resistance to fire, it is lined with crushed soul gem. It can contain what even daedric steel cannot. While you live, you belong to me, and when I choose to kill you, you will reincarnate exactly where you are now. From now on it is the cage or the Void for you. Am I understood?"

The elemental stood very still for a moment. Ghatha felt it inspect along the link between summoner and summoned, testing. She had chosen this particular variety of summoned specifically because it was not well-suited to telepathic communication. She could not bend it by will, but neither would it bend _her_. What she planned to try would have been much more dangerous with, for example, a Xivilai.

"At your age, you should be able to speak," said Ghatha. "You will call me _Master, _or I will cause you to suffer. Your kind have no names, so you will answer to _Akhanad. _Am I understood?"

The atronach looked at her, and at the gantry and the lava. It made a crackling noise which Ghatha took to be laughter. She shrugged and threw an ice spell at it. _This _had no trouble passing through the bars at all. There was a hiss of evaporating frost, and the atronach screamed with the voice of a high wind. Pain arced along the link between them, but Ghatha batted it aside with the ease of long practice.

Ghatha readied another spell, waiting. The atronach shook itself, then spat something like a coal toward the bars. Ghatha blasted it with frost again, and again after that, until it ran out of screams and crumpled back against the cage with its bracers over its masked face.

"Am I understood?" Ghatha repeated patiently.

"_Khskyesssss,"_said the atronach at last. The noise that served it for voice was much quieter now. _"Hmmaster."_

"Good," said the kynreeve. "And what is your name?"

"_Akhhhanad_," said the atronach.

"Now," said Ghatha, raising her hands. "It is time you learned to search the Void."

Akhanad's dying shriek was heard for three floors above them.

---

"You think this creature will come to us merely because we have set a large plant on fire?" said Ebel-Merodach. He looked skeptically at the flaming tree in front of them. The caitiff and Menien Goneld stood to one side of a medium-sized boulder. The Sleeper sat hunched up on top of it, hands in her lap and head bowed. Merodach was not sure whether this was because she had not the energy to raise it or merely to keep the brutal sun of Nirn out of her eyes. He had to squint until his eyes watered to see anything, now that they were out of the shade of the trees. The fire was a little reassuring, though the smell of burning wood was not yet entirely familiar.

"Sure," said Menien Goneld now. "If there's one within ten miles of us. They think the woods belong to them. They'll kill you just for being in amongst the trees, let alone this." He waved a hand at the fire.

"How far is ten miles?" said Ebel-Merodach. Goneld rendered the measurement in the Kyntongue. Merodach grunted. "We will have a long wait if it is that far off, Menien Goneld."

"Oh, I don't know," said Goneld. "Spriggans aren't exactly mortal. I'm not sure they can get tired, at least not while the sun is up - "

There was a high, thin scream from somewhere nearby. Goneld and Merodach had their backs to the boulder instantly, scanning the trees around them. Merodach gripped his mace. "Loathsome one," he said. "Do you see the creature?"

"Yes," said Sodrinye. "Move behind me, into the trees. I would rather she did not see you."

"_She_," said Ebel-Merodach as they edged backwards.

"They look female," said Menien Goneld. "More or less. But since nobody's ever seen a male one I don't know that there are any. Maybe they reproduce the way plants do."

Ebel-Merodach contemplated this. It was likely plants in Nirn did not have quite the same reproductive requirements as those in Oblivion, but it still seemed hard to picture. _I suppose it does not matter. _He had let himself be distracted by irrelevancies a little too often of late. Right this moment, for example, he ought to be there in front of his debtbond instead of hiding behind a tree next to an aging Imperial in poorly-fitted armor...

The next scream was much closer. Sodrinye had gauged its direction correctly; whatever it was seemed to be on the other side of the rock from them, out of sight. Merodach risked a look. He could not see the creature, but Sodrinye now sat with her head up, the line of her shoulders a degree straighter. He would not have been able to tell the difference four weeks ago or even, for that matter, known what weeks were.

There was a blunt _whommm _of spent magicka, and a red glow limned the Sleeper for a moment. She shook her head, then hitched herself off the rock and out of Merodach's view. There had been nothing accidental in the movement, though it came to him that he was not at all sure how much magicka the Sleeper could, in fact, absorb. He had known krynvelhat to be entirely without protection against magicka, or his own enchanted weapon would have been much less useful to him in the past.

The elemental creature screamed again. This one went on for some time. At the end it trailed down to a whimper, then silence. Merodach waited for a moment before he started forward. Menien Goneld ranged off to the right, around the other side of the boulder.

Then Ebel-Merodach heard another cry, a brief and weakly sound – not one that could come from any elemental throat. He drew his mace as he skidded around the edge of the rock, snarling.

Whatever the thing was that lay on the ground there, it was dead. Its skin had somewhat the aspect of wood, and its body sprouted leaves here and there, but the helpless gape of the eyes and mouth was unmistakable. Merodach turned to look down at the Sleeper. She sat back against the base of the boulder with her head on her knees. She was certainly breathing. Merodach rolled his eyes as he sheathed the mace. He heard the soft creak of an arrow being unnocked as Menien Goneld stepped forward.

"So it worked, then?" said the Imperial. Ebel-Merodach prodded the creature with a booted foot.

"Is this a spriggan?" he said.

"Un huh," said Menien Goneld. He looked thoughtfully down at the creature, which did indeed bear some resemblance to a mortal woman, albeit one made from branches and leaves.

"Then yes," said Ebel-Merodach. "I believe so." He sensed no taint of blood, and the air was heavy with spent magicka. He squatted in front of the Sleeper, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Get up. You will have to put out the fire."

"It'll give away our position more than a little come nightfall," agreed Goneld. He stared around them. "Spriggans are supposed to be pretty territorial, or I'd worry it might attract more of _them, _too."

Sodrinye did not respond. Merodach shifted to one knee as he leaned forward to shake one of her shoulders. "Come, little krynvelhat," he said in the Kyntongue. Sodrinye shook her head suddenly, then lifted her chin. Her eyes glowed bright violet even in the aching daylight.

"Step back," she said. "I will put it out."

Ebel-Merodach stood up and moved aside with alacrity. Menien Goneld was already behind the rock. Sodrinye pushed herself upright without difficulty, but she still leaned her legs against the stone as she raised her hand. White light burst from her fingertips. The burning tree crackled and hissed, and then the fire died down. Frost lay over the scorched branches.

"That was more moderate than I expected," said Menien Goneld.

"Even with a white soul I can do much," said Sodrinye. She looked at Ebel-Merodach. "Not enough to walk as far as we must go today."

"Of course not," said Merodach dryly. "And where _are _we to go now, debtbond? Have you vision again?"

"Oh, yes," said Sodrinye. For a moment something in her voice twanged, a harsh discord, but it was gone with her next words. "Though I am not sure for how long. Our path lies close beside the atronach's. North, and east."

"So we're going to keep on the way we've been going," said Menien Goneld. "And it takes a psychic to tell us this."

"You are surprised by this?" said Ebel-Merodach. "Come. We have far to go, and I do not wish to stand in the sun any longer than I must."


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: It's hard not to get overly vague and abstract with the whole Voidstreams concept, given that's basically how it's treated in the game. We'll see how we do._

Chapter 19

Laure held Tychicus Varen's arm as the stars faded. When the dizziness was gone, she let go. He didn't seem to notice one way or the other, but Laure felt herself reluctant to lose hold of that strong anchor. _Oh, dear. Very bad indeed. Think about something else. _She looked around at the ruin, silently damning her telltale Breton complexion. Sercen seemed completely unchanged since their last visit, bar the absence of any bodies. She sensed no evil, at least.

"They're gone?" she said.

"Yes," said Brother Varen. "I am sure they left shortly after we did. I brought us here only because this is the furthest East I have been on this continent. I have no reference point for where we are going."

"So we'll have to walk," Laure translated this.

"Yes. Come, Sister."

"Yes, Brother," said Laure, and they set off toward the East. She dearly hoped he hadn't noticed her reaction earlier. He did seem fairly oblivious to such things. And how _had _no one noticed this before? _But that's why you liked him to start with, remember? Because he treated you like everyone else. I suppose everyone just assumed he was egalitarian. It's not as though priests of the Nine are sworn to celibacy._

_How very fascinating, _she thought glumly. _I know what a schoolgirl crush is. I know how truly pathetic I am for even thinking of it at a time like this. And yet my knowledge changes not one thing._

_Gods damn it all._

---

Ghatha sat on the bench she had set up near the cage. She knew her own limits, and it took considerable effort merely to maintain the link to the creature Akhanad. _The Void is near us as breath and further than Nirn. So has it ever been. So shall it ever be._

A mind in the Void was easy to locate and difficult to read, more so than if she had summoned a creature out of Nirn itself (as she had sometimes done with undead mortals). Alien and conflicting impressions surged across the surface of her mind – a blackness deeper than any sky she had ever seen, and a maelstrom of colored threads interwoven one with the other, and a mist of soft gray without landmarks or distance - and all of these at the same time and overlying one another. It might have driven a more imaginative kynaz mad. She half expected it would do so to the atronach.

But Akhanad was still sane. Ghatha felt it searching with the determination of pain and fury, tearing through the threads in search of what she had told it to seek. This was the fifth time she had killed it, and she had not done so quickly. It knew what was waiting should it return again without result.

After a time for which she had no standard of measure, Ghatha felt a nauseating shift in perception. Akhanad at last had found footing in the gray. Mist swirled up and occluded the confusion, and then she saw a definite form in this place of utter formlessness.

It was a kynaz. There was no mistaking the horns. But this one's skin had the odd purple tinge and fleshy look that she knew belonged to Sleepers, and its eyes were black and dull. Through Akhanad's discorporate eyes she saw it turn slowly, standing as if the mist could support its weight.

And in that second, as the Sleeper's eyes fell on the soul of the atronach, Ghatha felt the connection from mind to eye to eye to mind -

_And the mind was not the Sleeper's. Another kynaz stood behind it, a krynvelhat powerful enough to rule a citadel searching the Void through the mind of its captive. It was a clever idea, too clever for Ghatha's own Lord..._

"This is not the one we seek," she said. "Move on!" Akhanad backed away, trying to find the way out as it had found the way in. Ghatha cursed the creature's clumsiness as it fumbled at the substance of the Void.

_What is it? _demanded that other mind. _I sense another kynaz behind it. _

The Sleeper's seemingly corporeal mouth worked for a moment, fumbling for the word, before she said "Atronach."

_Then get it out of my way. I have no time for this._

"Dagon damn your soul - " Ghatha said, and writhed on her bench as the Sleeper reached out with startling power to push the atronach away, far away and down -

And then it snapped out of the Void altogether, and fell into Nirn.

---

_Akhanad felt herself flying through something like the air, but knew it was not; this was yet another trick of the Void, another channel of its streams. She sensed the fury of the summoner who would be called Master, who could not break her fall, and she sensed the plane of Nirn drawing ever closer as she spiraled out of control. She could no more stop herself now than she could break out of the gemmed cage; the Void-kynaz had been much more powerful than the one who had sent her._

"_Find her!" screamed the Master, and Akhanad strove to obey. Now she knew what a Sleeper was like, and the one she was to find must surely be somewhere in Nirn below (insofar as "below" had any meaning in this place) -_

_Akhnanad howled silently. She sensed _two _of the dark kyn, and they were far from each other – how was she know which one to seek? She wavered desperately between them, but did not stop falling as she did it. In the end the choice was taken away from her, and she had to seize on a point of equidistant focus or lose herself completely._

_And she did find a point of focus, though it was not one she would have touched had there been any other choice..._

_---_

"He has been here," said Tracks-Too-Well. "More than once. The last time very recently." The Argonian raised his long snout and looked around, eyes narrow and nostrils wide. "Not today. Yesterday, this one thinks. Also the Breton female." He looked impassively at Marcus Barnabas, who avoided his gaze. "She is very young. This I can tell even though the stench of daedra is over nearly everything."

"I know," said Marcus. He looked around the ruin with narrowed eyes. It was deathly quiet, not a breeze stirring the scrubby grass. "Did they go inside?"

The Argonian paced nearer the square stone door to the main city, albeit with some reluctance. "This one thinks so. Many hands have touched this door, you understand, and most were human, and some I think perhaps were not even alive. It is ever so with the Ayleid places."

"We know," said Lybiad. "Did they come back out?" Marcus exchanged glances with him, but neither one commented further. _Down a dark stairway with a restless spirit or a deadly enemy at the bottom. Wonderful._

"Oh, certainly," said Tracks-Too-Well. "They went that way." He waved a negligent hand toward the Northeast. If he noticed any subtle lessening of tension in his companions, he showed no sign.

"Which ones?" said Marcus. "The daedra or the priests?"

"Both," said Tracks-Too-Well. "Not together. The demons left days ago. This one suspects the priests are following them."

"See?" said Marcus to Lybiad. "He's trying to do the right thing."

"Then why didn't he tell someone?" shot back the other man. They shared an unhappy silence. "Get out the crystal ball. We've got a report to make before we go further."

---

Menien Goneld padded silently ahead of the other two, listening to the solid sound of the caitiff's booted feet. He'd kept himself together, but the screams tended to linger in his ears. _He had heard that so many times in the Citadel, the distant echoing sounds of human and inhuman pain..._

Goneld shook his head. _This can't continue. I can't._

---

"Are you awake?" said Ebel-Merodach.

Sodrinye blinked her eyes open. She lay against Merodach's chest as he carried her, a pleasant change from being slung over his shoulder. The bulk of his shoulders and head shielded her face from the sun. He hadn't called her _loathsome one, _and she was not sure what to think of that. "Yes," she said.

"When you killed the creature," said Merodach. "Afterwards. You made a noise."

Sodrinye was not sure what to say to this, either. She was busy dreading what she knew he was about to say.

"You made no sound the last time you took a life," said Ebel-Merodach. "Not even when you were dying. You are without rage and ordinarily without anything I recognize as defiance. I remember this because it is not kyn, you understand. What happened today?"

"Today I regained my vision," Sodrinye said. "And I saw."

"Saw what?" said Ebel-Merodach. "You were not in pain. What alarms you more than the prospect of your own death?"

Sodrinye considered this. He was going to know the truth soon, whether she would or no.

"The prospect of yours," said the Sleeper.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Laure walked beside Brother Varen in tense, embarrassed silence. At least, it was so on her side. He seemed little different than he ever was. She had noticed he occasionally frowned, as if he were listening for something, but he betrayed no sign of any real emotion. _Maybe he doesn't feel any, _she thought. _Maybe he can't._

_But you know that's not true, don't you, _said the treacherous inner voice, reminding her of what he had said about Bruma: _It is there that I have found warmth. _It was not something a truly unemotional being could say.

He stopped walking suddenly. Laure stopped a second later, when she realized he was not beside her. She turned. "What is it, Brother?"

Tychicus Varen was looking around, very definitely frowning now. "Do you hear it?"

Laure strained after the imaginary sound. At first she heard only the birds, and the occasional rustle of grass under the trees beside the path. Then she slowly became aware of a distant, faint humming noise. It was becoming louder, and then she began to realize it was more than a noise – a thrill of discord ran up and down her spine, like nails scraping a chalkboard.

"What's that?" she said.

"Something is coming through the barrier," he said. "Without a gate."

"You mean the barrier to Oblivion," Laure said, with an abrupt sinking feeling. She looked around, trying to discover the source of the noise, but it seemed directionless.

"Yes," said Tychicus Varen. "It cannot be deliberate. No daedra would choose the uncontrolled approach I sense."

"Out here?" said Laure. "Surely it can't be a coincidence...?"

"I don't think so," said Varen. "It is most likely searching for a familiar object, so that it does not materialize under ground or inside something solid." He glanced at her with a small smile. "In which case, you should stand further away, Sister."

Laure obediently backed toward the trees, still looking around. The sound and the sensation were stronger now, setting her teeth vibrating so that her molars clicked. She called up the magicka and felt it glide up her spine and out to the ends of her fingers. And above Tychicus Varen's head, the air seemed to grow thicker and redder...

Then it caught fire.

Laure opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Varen was already well to one side when the fireball hit. It flared up so brightly that she had to look away for a moment, and when she opened her eyes, he was standing beside her. He didn't see her looking at him. He was staring at the new crater in the bare ground of the path, and suddenly the air between him and Laure was very cold. She turned slowly to follow his gaze. The hole took up the whole path; smoke rose up from the remnants of scorched plants at the outer edges nearest the woods. Within the smoke something glowed like a coal, black aureoled with red.

She was watching for it, or she might easily have missed the groping hand at the edge of the pit. It was no human hand. It had the right number of fingers, but the nearest thing to flesh was coal-black and giving off flames. There were no nails. There was only the fire. Laure stared at it, wondering nervously what would happen were one to encounter a flame atronach in the wild (so to speak). One heard of solitary varieties native to Vvardenfell, but the ones who had come through the gates back during the Invasion had been bloodthirsty and utterly crazed. Only the most skilled or reckless of mages would dare conjure them. Dremora could be reasoned with, in fact were dangerously good at it themselves. Not the atronachs of the Deadlands. Not this.

The hand scrabbled about in the dirt for a moment, then apparently found some sort of purchase. Another one joined it, and then the creature heaved itself out of the pit and onto one knee in the scorched earth. Flame flickered up behind the head, something like an Altmeri coif in shape but nowhere near as comical. The few bits of armor that overlay the foreshortened body were black as well. It glowed red at the edges like superheated metal, although Laure knew for a fact that direct exposure to the atronach's body would melt steel.

The shape of its body was female, like all the atronachs of Hell that had come through the great gates.

The burning eyes behind the mask did not so much as notice Laure. The creature was looking at Tychicus Varen. He looked back, and Laure edged a little away from him – she felt so strongly the body of the atronach straining against the form of man, the millenia of instinct against mere centuries of will.

"_Dacha_," he said quietly, and Laure heard the daedric echo in the word. She couldn't help noticing his eyes had turned a pale and brilliant blue.

The flame atronach stood up slowly. "_Kkhheissed," _she replied.

"Do you understand me in this tongue?" Varen said in Cyrodilic.

The voice still emerged as a rising hiss, but the answer was unmistakable: _"Yes. I understand."_

_---_

Menien Goneld was distracted from private and miserable reflection by the unexpected silence behind him. He'd grown accustomed to the caitiff's growling voice and the Sleeper's thin one. The sudden cessation twanged at his nerves. He rose from where he knelt in the dust, momentarily abandoning the sign he'd been reading, and went quietly back up the path until he could see them.

Ebel-Merodach stood still in the middle of the path, glaring down at the creature in his arms. The Sleeper looked determinedly into the middle distance, avoiding that fiery and accusing stare. Neither kynaz looked up at Goneld's approach.

"How long have you known this?" demanded Ebel-Merodach.

"You heard me," said Sodrinye.

"Known what?" said Menien Goneld.

"The Sleeper believes I am shortly going to die," said Merodach.

"Are you sure?" Goneld said, looking at Sodrinye. "Visions are tricky, I hear."

"Yes," said Sodrinye. "They can be. But it was his face. I heard his heart stop beating."

"Gods," said Goneld dully, but he couldn't exactly say he was surprised. What, after all, were a Dremora's chances in Cyrodiil? _And without the caitiff..._ He didn't like the odds for the three of them (supposing for a moment that he cared whether he lived or died), but the Sleeper would have absolutely no chance without her debtsworn. Goneld might be able to provide for her, and offer some sort of protection, but he wouldn't be able to carry her far enough or fast enough. "What are you going to do?"

Ebel-Merodach showed his teeth. The gesture bore only a cursory resemblance to a smile. "I am going to die. The little krynvelhat has never been wrong."

"Do you know when?" said Goneld.

Sodrinye shook her head. "It was not here. Inside a courtyard made of stone. There were bones all around."

"What kind of stone?" said Goneld. "Was it white? Another Ayleid place?"

"No," said Sodrinye. Goneld waited, but she had closed her eyes again. He shook his head and turned to continue up the path.

---

The Imperial did not jog on ahead as before. Instead he remained, walking beside Ebel-Merodach. The caitiff walked, stoically enduring the painful glare of the demon-thing the mortal had called _sun. _It warmed his armor, but not enough to compensate for the chill of his surroundings, and the inert weight of the Sleeper seemed to sap the heat from his limbs. He would have to find something to drink again soon.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Menien Goneld said eventually.

"About what?" said Ebel-Merodach.

"That you're going to die," said the Imperial.

Merodach shot him a look, suddenly experiencing a very clear picture of Goneld shooting him in the back of his helmetless skull from well out of reach. Goneld had even said something about it, once. _They'll shoot you through one of those glowing eyes before you ever see them. All that armor won't do you much good, then._

"Why is that?" he said. "Will you kill me?"

Goneld shot him a look in turn. "No. My word is all that's left to me in this plane. I'll keep it."

"Then there is nothing for you to be _sorry _for," said Ebel-Merodach. Goneld laughed softly.

"To a kynaz, I suppose there isn't," he said. "But I'm what's left of a man."

"Enough is left that I would rather not have you behind me with a bow, Menien Goneld," said Ebel-Merodach dryly. Goneld looked at him quickly, trying to decide how that was meant, and then he smiled.

"Then I can only accept the compliment, Ebel-Merodach." And with that, he turned and padded up the path and out of sight.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"Well?" said Lybiad impatiently. Tracks-Too-Well came to a halt in front of the others, breathing only a little faster from the ground-covering lope in which he had approached.

"The tracks diverge," said Tracks-Too-Well. "They are nearly parallel, but the priest and the girl are no longer following the demons. This one thinks they have a destination in view."

"Gods damn it," said Lybiad under his breath. Marcus sighed. Neither of them exactly outranked the other, but there really was no decision to make.

"We'll stay on the Dremora," said Marcus. "We have to. If Tychicus Varen isn't after them, he can wait until later."

"Right," said Lybiad.

"Both we and the priests have been narrowing the gap," said Tracks-Too-Well. "They were not here so very long ago, no."

"Doesn't fit," said Lybiad, folding his arms. "Dremora travel fastWe were chasing them down for weeks after the gates closed." Marcus nodded shortly. He and the other Imperial exchanged a glance. Marcus didn't particularly like Lybiad, but there was no denying they had things in common. _None of it matters. We're Blades. We'll do what we have to do so that the Empire can go on._

"So this one has heard," said the Argonian calmly. He scratched at his nose with a clawed fingertip. Most of him was dark green, but toward the end of his muzzle he was graying, the scales losing color. It was the only sign of aging Marcus could identify, and he had had considerable practice even with that very alien race. "But it is true all the same," the tracker said now. "We are traveling very fast, even though this one is not as quick as those of, hm, other training." He showed his sharp teeth, but the short crest on his head was unruffled; Marcus recognized it as a complacent expression. "They are slow. This one suspects it is because the larger of the two demons is usually carrying the other one."

"Carrying it," said Lybiad. "Why? Daedra don't care about their wounded."

The three of them looked at each other. Tracks-Too-Well shrugged. "You two are the possessors of the special information, yes. This one is with you because of the very little he does know about the demons, and that is not much – a mere matter of surviving one or two encounters. This one suspects, however, that the _it _to whom you refer is in fact a _she._"

"You can tell that about Dremora?" said Lybiad suspiciously. Marcus frowned. The Argonian had previously identified the Dremora only as daedra. Was he exaggerating? Trying to inflate his own perceived expertise?

"Not with great certainty," said the Argonian. "The stink of fire and brimstone and other things is very strong. But this one perceives more as he grows accustomed to it. They two are different in small ways. And..." He waved a hand at the two sets of nearly-invisible prints where someone had briefly stood. "The one who carries is much heavier than the one who is carried. He is armored, certainly, or he is nine feet tall (and his feet are too small for that). But even with that, they are very different in size. Look at the prints. Even the Imperial, the one who leaves almost no marks, his feet are a little bigger than hers."

"I'll take your word for it," said Marcus, who had in fact been taking a closer look at the prints as the Argonian spoke.

"It seems like she – if it is a she – would've healed up or died by now," said Lybiad. "They've taken in enough blood between the two of them. Dremora heal fast." Marcus nodded.

"This one thinks perhaps it is some sort of illness," said the Argonian. "Many times I have seen the shape of two bodies in the earth where they stop to camp, and these creatures do not sleep. The larger one never lies down, never. This one has told you so."

"Yes," said Marcus. "He's keeping guard on the other two. To keep the Imperial from escaping, perhaps?"

"This one doubts it," said Tracks-Too-Well. "The few marks that the Imperial leaves are not always close to the others. He moves around them, before and behind." The Argonian's tail twitched once. "This one does not like that. Not at all."

"I don't like it, either," said Marcus. "First Tychicus Varen, and now this. Maybe it _is _some sort of mind control."

Lybiad snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. Dremora don't do mind control. They think it's beneath them, and anyway they're terrible at Illusion."

"These two aren't acting like Dremora normally do," said Marcus slowly. "Demons don't show any regard for their dead. They kill their wounded, or leave them behind. This one's going to an awful lot of trouble to hang onto the other one. And he can't be keeping the Imperial around for food. They're _sharing_."

"None of this really matters," said Lybiad. "We'll catch them, and then we'll stop them. That'll be an end of it."

"No, this matters," argued Marcus. "We need to know what we're going to find when we _do _catch up. We know we'll have a footsoldier to deal with – well and good. We've dealt with that before. But these other two..."

"Some sort of invalid and one Imperial," said Lybiad firmly. "Nothing to worry about. We'll make our report and we'll get this over with. After this, the two priests should be a cakewalk one way or the other."

"There is something else," said the Argonian.

"What is it?" said Marcus.

"Up over the next rise," said Tracks-Too-Well. "I found something you will wish to see."

---

"You don't belong here," said Tychicus Varen. He said it calmly, but the charge of magicka radiating from his body raised the hairs on Laure's spine. "Why are you here, _Dacha_?"

The flame atronach twitched its head from side to side. The flames died back. Its skin glowed without burning. The tall coif on its head fell down around its mask, luminous threads instead of coherent fire. With no small uneasiness, Laure recognized the imitation of her own cropped hair.

The voice that emerged in answer to Brother Varen's question was a little less inhuman. Laure was hesitant to say _more human, _because she doubted that was possible.

"The Master calls me Akhanad," said the flame atronach. "I would not hear the ancient name on the lips of your kind, _Kheised_."

"Then I am Varen," said the priest. He glanced quickly at Laure, as if remembering for the first time that she was there. "Akhanad means _burning coal _in the tongue of the Dremora," he said quietly, looking back at the other atronach. The supernatural echo faded from his voice, under tighter control now. "I took my name voluntarily. She was given hers to bind her to summoning."

"Yesss," said Akhanad, and the last sound stretched out like air escaping. "_Filthy_ kynaz." She was looking at Laure now, and suddenly her mask and armor vanished, drawing back into her body as if they had never been there. The features under it were immediately and awfully recognizable. _Because they're mine, _Laure thought faintly. But this was Laure as she would never be in this life – Laure with perfect symmetry and a flawless body, featureless as a statue; Laure as a goddess sculpted in burning jet. It reminded her of every flaw she had ever tried to forget, and she felt faintly sick as she watched.

"I have no business with you," said Akhanad. She was obviously making an effort to speak normally, but sibilants would still creep in. "I needed a place to land, and there are no more gates."

"But why are you here?" said Tychicus Varen patiently. Something had changed in the last few moments, and Laure was not able to understand how. She struggled to maintain her composure; she dared not look again at the naked flame atronach, and she dared not look at Varen, and she dared not speak and introduce another factor into a tense situation. She folded her hands tightly in front of her and stared at the ground.

"Seeking another kynaz," said the atronach. From the corner of her eye, Laure saw her face change as she spoke, growing more attenuated and hollow and, thank the blessed gods, less familiar. Laure let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "My Master wants to know where one of the strange ones is. The krynvelhat who walk the Void at will."

"The Sleepers," said Tychicus Varen. "Why?"

There was a pause. Akhanad folded her arms, still solid black and glowing faintly. Laure raised her head slowly, watching as the atronach's hair grew into tendrils about her shoulders. She looked nothing at all like Laure now; her face was slim and pointed, sharp in every feature. Her fingers and toes were still innocent of anything so complex as a nail. Presently she tipped her head, imitating Varen's gesture. "I have no need to tell you," she said. "And I would be punished."

"You are bound to a kynaz," said Varen. "There is no escaping punishment until her next death. You know this."

"You are different," the other atronach said, as if to herself. They stared at each other a moment longer. Laure raised her head, looking from Varen to Akhanad. The priest's eyes were brown again. Akhanad's were black and slick as oil. "You serve one whom I do not know."

"Arkay is an aedra," said Varen.

"Yes. The closer of circles. I remember," said Akhanad. She shook her head once. "But there is nothing you can do, even if you would – and you are _Kheised. _I have no more time to waste with you." With that she turned and ran away up the path, leaving only a pair of steaming black footprints where she had stood.

"We'll meet again," said Varen into the silence. Laure heard him take a deep breath. Then he turned to look down at her, and that sudden and close attention nearly broke her. "I'm sorry," he said. "They're not a polite race. I'm afraid we were fortunate she didn't attack me on sight."

"She... wasn't as good at changing shape as you are," Laure managed. Varen turned and began walking up the path again, and Laure moved to stay beside him. The inside of her head had the stuffed-with-cotton feeling she normally only got from weeping.

"I've had lifetimes in which to practice," said Varen. "I think that was her first attempt at anything resembling a human form." He smiled slightly. "I'm afraid my race has traditionally seen the _Dacha _as undisciplined. I've met a few in Vvardenfell who were very reasonable, but all of them were nearer my own age." The smile vanished abruptly, replaced by the look of distant consideration that was normal to him. "I'm more concerned about why she was sent here. Someone was clever enough to think of sending her into Nirn, and I can't imagine she's supposed to kill a Sleeper on her own."

"Whoever it is wants to know where those Dremora are," said Laure. "The same ones we're looking for. That's the direction she's headed."

"Yes," said Varen. "It makes sense. Few krynvelhat can extend themselves far into the Void without dying, and that is the only way to scry into Nirn – except for Sleepers. I think Akhanad is meant to be the link between worlds. The sorcerer's anchor."

"Then perhaps we'd better walk faster," said Laure.

"I agree," said Tychicus Varen.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Yes, it's been a ridiculously long time since the last update. Sorry. I'm going to finish this story if it kills me, but it may take a while because I'm a)working on other projects too and b)feeling a bit stuck at the moment. Thank you to all those who left reviews requesting more updates - encouragement never hurts. :D

Chapter 22

Tracks-too-well crouched on top of a boulder, looking down. "The smaller one sat here," he said. "The other two stood behind this rock."

"Didn't even try to cover their tracks here," said Marcus. "It must have been urgent." He kept his mind on present events with an effort, stifling guilt. They'd sent another report to the duty mage at Cloud Ruler. Another pair of Blades was on its way to Tychicus Varen and the girl, effectively taking their fate out of Marcus's hands. He had no idea whether or not his silent prayer to Arkay was heeded. Certainly the two Redguards would have no such ideas; most Blades were very sincere and singular in their worship of the Dragon. _Especially now._

"You don't say," said Lybiad. Marcus ignored his caustic tone of voice as he looked at the burnt remains of a tree in front of them. Burnt, and probably frozen afterwards, to put the fire out; water was still dripping from the branches, and everything around it was dry. The corpse of a spriggan, already beginning to crumble around the edges, lay at the foot of a large rock nearby. The expression of primal fury was still discernible on its wooden face.

"They set the tree on fire," Marcus said. "They were attacked by a spriggan. I wonder if they did it on purpose."

"That wasn't any godsdamned accident," said Lybiad, staring up at the tree. He shook his head, resettling his cropped brown hair. "They let it burn for too long. They must've been trying to bring one."

"So they could kill it," Marcus finished this thought.

"The taproot is still there, yes," said Tracks-Too-Well. "This one checked. It is too crumbled to be of any use now. All the life is sucked out of it."

"Spriggan blood wouldn't be any good to a Dremora," said Lybiad. "It's practically sap. I'd say they did it just for entertainment – it's a demonish thing to do – but..." he obviously didn't want to admit Marcus was right, but even Lybiad had not been accepted into the Emperor's Blades without better-than-average native discernment. "It doesn't fit the rest of what we've seen."

"Seems redundant, to set the sick one out as bait," Marcus mused. He looked at the spriggan, then at the burnt tree.

"Burnt and frozen," said Lybiad. "I suppose there are _some _Dremora mages who could cast a fireball that big and frost that soon afterwards. _I_ never met one."

"And not the big warrior, certainly," said Marcus. "Like you said before, a footsoldier."

"A pattern emerges," said Tracks-Too-Well grimly. "There is a very good reason why they carry the small one with them, yes."

--

The terrain grew steeper. Trees grew closer around the three as they climbed, and Goneld checked off each new type of foliage as it appeared: _foxglove. Cairn bolete cap. There won't be tinder polypore, this far East._ There was no real path any longer. Instead they negotiated the spaces under the trees, where the canopy prevented sunlight from reaching the ground. Goneld didn't speak to Ebel-Merodach for a while. There was too much cover to keep full track of their surroundings, and he needed his eyes and ears every minute. Not so many of the larger, more dangerous creatures lived up here, but you never knew – and evil men and mer were known to establish their fastnesses in the wilderness far from the City.

They saw an occasional deer. _Bad sign, _Goneld thought, watching one flashing white tail vanish into the gloom. _For them to be this skittish of two-legged things, they have to have been hunted before. Or maybe it's just the demons they don't like. _But that was just wishful thinking. He was out of sight of the other two, even out of hearing of the caitiff's tramping boots.

Goneld stopped, realizing there was a break in the trees ahead of him – bright sunlight falling on the flat ground, the first he had seen in hours. He crept quietly toward it, looking around him. Right on the edges of a clearing would be an ideal place to put traps, for an enterprising bandit or necromancer. The birds had fallen silent around him.

He was not startled by the sudden rattle from up ahead, though he had not realized he was listening for it. Goneld squatted next to a tree trunk, peering around it out of the dim and into the light.

The ground was bare for perhaps twenty yards ahead of him, spotted with moss and a few little white flowers. Beyond the pale sward loomed a tower made of weathered stone, nearer brown than white. The round keep was unmistakable. _One of the old Imperial forts. But there hasn't been an active outpost out here in a hundred years or more. _A thick growth of bushes crowded up close to the walls, half-choking the arched doorway into the courtyard. A small lake spread out beyond it, reflecting the blue sky.

And, high on the walls where no watchman had stood in a century, something moved. Goneld held himself very still as he tracked it, a scrap of something bobbing above the top of the stone wall. Whatever-it-was was nearly the same color as the building. He caught the flash of sunlight on a weapon, and then a human skeleton appeared suddenly at a gap in the stone.

The thing was unmistakably animate, clattering its jaw as it stared down with empty sockets. It held a bow and an arrow with bony fingers. It wore no clothing, but somehow it had managed to sling a quiver over one shoulderblade. Menien Goneld didn't move, waiting to see if it had seen him. Behind him came the sound of someone trying to walk quietly in heavy boots. He glanced back long enough to verify that it was Ebel-Merodach, and when he looked back at the wall the undead was gone.

"The courtyard made of stone," said Merodach. He unslung Sodrinye from his shoulder and set her in the moss at the foot of the tree. She slid over onto her side, limp as a corpse. Goneld watched him look from the Sleeper to the moderately warmer sunlit ground ahead, but he did not break cover.

"There are animate dead in there," said Goneld. "I just saw a skeleton."

Merodach snorted, but he did it quietly. "I am _not _to be killed by the remains of a mortal creature."

"Plenty of other fort ruins in Cyrodiil for you to die in," said Goneld. "If you're going to be particular about it. Sometimes liches colonize these old forts, too."

"What are liches?" said Ebel-Merodach.

"That's what you get when a necromancer decides to live forever," said Goneld. "And that's about as much as I know. I've never seen one. Not many men do and talk about it afterwards." _I wonder if it's the same number that are prisoners in Oblivion and come back again. Gods know it's not looking like I'll get a chance to chat much about it myself. _"Pick her up and let's get going. I don't like it here."

Ebel-Merodach shook his head. "We would not succeed in leaving. Things the Sleeper sees invariably take place."

Goneld sighed. _Gods damn it all. _"Then see if you can wake her up. Undeads are susceptible to fire."

"Are they _susceptible _to arrows?" said Ebel-Merodach, clearly trying out the unfamiliar word.

"Not iron ones," said Menien Goneld. He hefted the silver sword, feeling its solid weight against his palm. "I don't know what enchantment you've got on that mace - "

"Poison," said Merodach.

"No good," Goneld said. "But hitting them will still work."

"It so often does," said Ebel-Merodach. He knelt beside Sodrinye and shook her. "Get up, little krynvelhat. We have found the place of your vision."

One dark purple hand clamped onto Merodach's pauldron as Sodrinye dragged herself into a sitting position. She blinked dark eyes in the shade, then turned to stare into the light. "So you have," she said. "We will not be alone here long and what power I have, I will need. Carry me into the shadow of the wall and do what you can to rid us of the undead. Not many are outside in the daylight. It will be easy."

Merodach grunted and leaned forward to hoist Sodrinye over his shoulder again, so that he would have a free hand to the mace.

"Can you run in that armor?" said Goneld. "I ask because there's a good chance we'll be shot at on our way to the wall - "

The caitiff was already gone. Goneld swore under his breath and shot off after him. A rusty arrow flew past him with a whiny _thwip, _and then a few more breathless strides across the brilliant space and he was under the wall.


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Travel times unhesitatingly fudged for plot convenience, as usual. Fort Ashen is my own invention, though there _are _some half-submerged forts in Cyrodiil's lake country. Also, does anyone remember Morrowind, when shields looked like force fields instead of glowing skin shaders? _

Chapter 23

Laure puffed and panted as she scrambled to keep up with Tychicus Varen. He showed no signs of being out of breath. _He's an atronach. Breathing could very well be optional._ She congratulated herself on the clean objectivity of this thought, and then swore silently as they stepped across another set of scorched footprints in the rocky soil.

"Brother," she said.

"Yes, Sister Laure."

"She's not moving in a straight line, is she?"

"No," said Tychicus Varen. "She's less experienced in tracking such signatures than I am, so her route is somewhat less direct."

"But she's faster," said Laure.

"Yes," said Varen simply. Laure was already cherry-red with exertion, so it probably wasn't possible for her to blush further; she was mildly grateful for this. He must have noticed some change in her posture or expression, however; he glanced sideways with a small smile. "I wouldn't be able to keep up with her even if you were not here, Sister. My speed is handicapped in this form, and my other form would still be slower than hers. We are both atronachs. We're not the same."

"I suppose not," Laure said, and cursed the silent,treacherous gleam of hope that this inspired. They walked on for a while. The ground seemed to be sloping upward now, and there were more trees. She was too busy concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other to pay much mind to their surroundings now, and in any case it seemed unlikely she would see or sense anything before Varen did. Only his sudden hand on her arm stopped her from walking right into the point of a katana.

She took a quick step back, staring at the Redguard in the path. He wore clean leathers without any apparent markings, not a mode of dress she associated with bandits. He was tall, fit, and looked about thirty or so, and he had shaved his kinky hair very close to his coffee-colored skull. Eyes as dark as anthracite watched her with no apparent emotion. The hands that held the long katana did not waver.

"I am not certain what I've done to attract the attention of the Blades," said Tychicus Varen calmly. "What is it you require, honored Brother?"

"You'll have to come with me," he said. "We have some questions to ask you."

"My errand is not trivial," said Tychicus Varen.

"Then you'd better speak quickly," said the Emperor's Blade. He was missing the lower part of one earlobe, and there was a scar up that side of his temple. "You seem to have had some voluntary dealings with daedra, Brother Varen. This gives us cause for concern."

_He knows his name, _Laure recognized silently, and felt a small pang of fear for the first time. _Which means Cloud Ruler Temple knows it._

"Sister Laure is not part of this," said Tychicus Varen. "She followed me in hopes of doing service to Arkay."

"And that's not what you're doing?" said the Blade.

"I would prefer to think so," said Varen. He looked steadily at the Redguard for a while. The other man looked back. Neither one blinked for some time.

"You seem to be taking on quite a bit for a simple priest," said the Redguard finally.

"I had reason to suspect your response might be disproportionate," said Tychicus Varen.

"That's not your decision to make," said the Blade. "Come on. It's a long way to Cloud Ruler temple and we're going to have to travel fast."

"I'm afraid we can't go with you," said Tychicus Varen. Laure edged closer to him. She doubted seriously that Varen would voluntarily do anything violent, which meant -

A bubble of slick, translucent purple snapped up in front of her just in time to deflect a ball of green magicka from the bushes off to Varen's left. The bubble shield covered her and Tychicus both, distorting their surroundings faintly. She still saw the second Redguard very clearly as he stood up from the foliage. One dark hand glowed green.

"So you've been to Vvardenfell," said the first Redguard. "It won't help you. You can't hold that indefinitely."

"I don't plan to," said Tychicus Varen. "Sister Laure?"

"Yes?" said Laure.

"I hope you will pardon the liberty," said Tychicus Varen, and scooped her up in both arms and ran. Laure ducked her head, but approaching branches scraped sparks from the top of the shield and glanced off. She felt another spell impact on its surface, but it seemed to have no affect.

"Can you really outrun two Blades?" she said.

"Not for long in this form," said Tychicus Varen's voice, very close to her ear. He was not breathing hard. Laure heard the footsteps behind them very clearly. "And I would rather that they not see my true one. I'm afraid we will have to find another solution."

"You said you can't teleport us there," she said, trying very hard not to think about the fact that she was pressed firmly against Tychicus Varen's broad chest.

"The risk is too great."

"But you're not going to kill those two," said Laure. The thought that he might not be able to do so never entered her mind.

"Not if I can avoid it," said Varen. "These are good men doing their duty." Hairs rose along Laure's spine as Varen let loose another magicka charge. "There are no dangerous creatures nearby. I suppose I'll have to risk it." He stopped suddenly, set Laure on her feet, and turned to face back the way they had come. The magicka rose and rose, and Laure took advantage of the extra charge to bring up her own shield. The blue light crackled and slid along her skin as Varen dropped the bubble from around them.

The two Redguards were Blades. Blades are not foolish, particularly those who survive in the wake of the Closing. They did not charge out of the bushes directly; rather, Laure heard the footsteps slow and come to a stop.

"I'll give you a chance to surrender," said the voice of the elder Redguard. "I really would rather not hurt you or the girl."

_Girl?_ thought Laure. _Well, really._

"I know," said Tychicus Varen quietly, and raised his arms. A green sphere took shape in front of him, then grew into a glowing wall, ten feet high and reaching into the ground at his feet; the edges spread out until Laure could not see them. Then he moved his hands as if to push it forward, and it shot out into the trees.

There were two distinct _thuds._

"What was that?" said Laure as Varen's magicka charge faded. She let go her own shield cautiously.

"Paralysis, no more," said Varen. "It will last for some while, but we still need to move very quickly. Will you permit me to carry you again, Sister?"

_Oh, yes. _"If it's really necessary," said Laure, with as much dignity as she could muster. Varen picked her up, very gently this time, and began to run again.

Tracks-Too-Well came to a sudden stop in the middle of the path. Marcus Barnabas halted behind him, reaching for his sword hilt. He knew Lybiad was doing the same, but did not look that way; he was already straining toward his surroundings with every ounce of perception.

"This one knows where they are going," said Tracks-Too-Well. Marcus relaxed slightly, annoyed with this unnecessarily dramatic revelation.

"Where?" demanded Lybiad, apparently sharing this sensation with Marcus.

"We are climbing to the East and North now," said the Argonian. He scratched with an idle claw at a patch of dry scale on the back of his neck as he turned to face them. "Into the lake country. This is the way to Fort Ashen."

The two Blades exchanged a look. "What does that mean?" said Marcus patiently.

The tracker shrugged. "It is an evil place."

"So are a lot of the other old forts," said Lybiad. "A Dremora would look for evil places, wouldn't they?"

"Not a dark pile of stone beside the water," said the Argonian. "Surely not. But that is where they are going."

"So we'll have to go down a dark hole after them after all," said Marcus Barnabas. "I guess that's no surprise. Demons see better in the dark than anything except a Khajiit."

"I still don't like it," said Lybiad.

Marcus sighed. "Me neither. You want to tell Jauffre we turned back?"

"No," said Lybiad.

Sodrinye listened for a while to the sound of dry bones shattering. She had seen the exterior quite clearly. Ebel-Merodach and Menien Goneld would not meet with much difficulty. Presently she levered herself upright against the wall and began to make her way around the curve of the stone keep. She went hesitantly, feeling her way. She was comfortable in the shadow, but the brilliance just beyond it was disorienting, especially as it still felt very cold to a kynaz. Once or twice a small, hairy animal with a naked tail – _rat, _she dredged up the word – darted in front of her, but they did not stop and neither did she.

Eventually the long curve brought her out of the shadow completely and she had to make for the shade of an overhanging balcony. When she at last stumbled blindly into this refuge and turned to look out again, the view had changed. The ground sloped gradually away at her feet and became a great dark blur, and in her ears was the sound of liquid lapping at a shore. If she looked to her left she could see the trees still. They made an indistinct green wall to her poor eyes as they marched down to the water's edge. _We came from the South, as Menien Goneld would call it. The water was hidden by the curve of the land. _

Sodrinye slid down until she sat with her back against the wall, yielding to the eternal dragging fatigue. If she squinted she could just make out lighter spots here and there in front of her, perhaps other ruined bits of stone standing up out of the water. _This place must have been built when the level was lower. _She could see it if she tried, a much brighter place with armored men and mer standing vigilant on its walls.

She did not understand how the water could have risen so far, but then there were still a great many things about Nirn that she did not understand. _I do not think I will have the opportunity. I cannot continue long without my debtsworn, and those who would kill him are coming nearer every instant. _There was something else, some confluence of threat, but the images were so very tangled that she could not separate them. There was the white, strained face of the human girl called Laure, more distinct than Sodrinye would ever be able to see it at that distance. In her sleep she had also seen a kyn mage, a krynvelhat standing beside an empty cage and a lava pool, but she could not parse the connection. And there was Tychicus Varen, always Tychicus Varen. Something important hinged on him and she could not discover what it was.

A soft whisper overhead indicated Menien Goneld's boot on the stone of the balcony. "Is that you down there, Sodrinye?" he said.

"Yes," she said, trying to stave off sleep again.

"You should've stayed put. For a second I thought you were a zombie."

Sodrinye did not reply to this. She could hear the caitiff's booted feet approaching from her left.

"Looks like we won't run out of drinking water," said Goneld's voice. "Except I guess that's not any good to you demons."

"Certainly not," said Ebel-Merodach. Sodrinye did not turn to look, but rather felt the ground vibrate under her as he came closer. "It might very well be lethal. Is this how I will die, little krynvelhat?"

"No," said Sodrinye. "Though many have died in this water. I think you will bleed to death." It was a good guess, anyway. His face when she saw it had been pale, and there had been much blood.

"Then there will be battle?" said Ebel-Merodach.

"I cannot tell," said Sodrinye. She stared blindly out at the sun over the black water and listened to the sound of something breaking inside herself. "Even this I cannot promise you, my debtsworn."


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: D'oh! I've just realized that the asterisks I was using to convey shifts in POV within a chapter aren't showing up in the live preview. I apologize for any inconvenience and will use "--" instead._

Chapter 24

"_That way!" screamed the Dremora's voice again. Akhanad shook her head irritably at the inner noise. She now had no doubt which kynaz to track, which signature of daedric power to follow across this chill and crowded landscape, but the Master would keep trying to give more orders anyway. Akhanad dimly understood what the kynaz was trying to do, and she suspected it required nothing more than simple proximity to the target. _

_She had to go more slowly now. It was getting darker, and Akhanad was unaccustomed to complete darkness – particularly the cold blue darkness of this world, so very uncomfortable compared to the fervid half-light of Dagon's plane._

_The Master _would _want her to kill the caitiff, for whatever reason a kynaz might have for that. The Kyn were ever killers of their own kind, and Akhanad neither knew nor cared what the individual motive might be. She did know that the link between herself and the loathed krynvelhat was tenuous here in Nirn. And to keep the tight control she held even now, to have even the dimmest possibility of threatening Akhanad into compliance, the mage would have to tire herself. Even an unsleeping daedra could tire, oh, yes. _

_The krynvelhat was paying close attention to the link now, keeping her on a tight leash. But that would change when she came near the weak one. The Master's attention would be divided, and she dared not dispatch her atronach to the Void lest she lose the link to her desired object. Things would be interesting then. Akhanad grinned to herself as she vaulted another small boulder, enjoying the features of her new face. And that was assuming the kynaz was even able to kill her again from so far away. Akhanad rather suspected she was not. _

_The krynvelhat would hurt her if she failed, of course. But the krynvelhat was going to hurt her again anyway. Akhanad saw nothing to lose in what she planned, and perhaps something to gain. _

_That Kheised had been strange. (She was unaware at this point that he had passed her some hundreds of yards to her right, taking a more direct route toward the goal than hers.) She had never seen an atronach with such a fine degree of control over his form, even his voice. And, like all creatures of a predatory inclination, she had found yielding to her curiosity generally served her better than otherwise._

--

"Here it is," said Tychicus Varen. He set Laure down gently as he broke stride, letting go when she was steady on her feet. She was very proud of how well she hid her disappointment, and then she looked up through the treeline and saw the hulking shadow of the keep against the starry sky. Laure swallowed. The water must be off to one side, hidden by the curve of the land; from here she could not even hear it.

She called up a pittance of magicka so that she could cast the one night vision spell she knew. Everything around her grew lighter, and colors flattened into shades of gray and blue. She stared up at the worn bricks of the structure in front of them. "It's an old fort," she said.

"Yes, this is Fort Ashen," said Tychicus Varen. "Nothing's lived inside it since before I came to Cyrodiil. Whatever is in there now probably isn't alive, either."

"What about the Dremora?" said Laure.

"They won't have gone inside," said Varen. "They didn't care for Sercen. They won't much care for a place of ancient human dead, either. Which means there won't be any undead left around the exterior." He turned and looked at her with a very familiar lack of affect. "If you want to stay here in the trees, you'll probably be safe. I don't know what will happen once I'm inside, and they won't spare me for your sake if things go wrong. Nor you for mine."

"I understand," said Laure. "I want to go with you."

Varen nodded, and his smile was there and gone in an instant. "I thought so. Then let us go, Sister Laure."

They stepped out of the trees together. Laure considered making herself invisible, but Tychicus Varen had not. In fact, he was drawing up a life detection spell of such magnitude that any magus inside the keep must surely sense it. Laure was almost used to that by this time.

_He doesn't want to surprise them, _she concluded after a moment's thought. Maybe that was better, considering what had happened last time. She wondered if the half-mad Imperial was still alive.

"We will go in by the main entrance," said Varen, confirming Laure's guess. She followed him around to the right, shivering in the night breeze as they walked beside the stone wall. In a city the stone would soak up the day's heat and give it back, but she felt no warmth from the walls beside her. Different kinds of moss grew in the chinks where the mortar had fallen out, dark green and pale green and gray.

She wouldn't need her night vision spell again, it seemed. Someone had a small fire going inside the walls as they came to the high arch that marked the entrance to the courtyard inside. There might have been a portcullis once, but if so it was long gone. The flames cast bizarre shadows on the high walls and stairs and the broken arches of brick.

The male Dremora stood to one side of the fire, the Imperial on the other. The light of the fire did strange things to Dremora armor, picking out red glows and shifting shadows on the black surface. The Imperial still wore the ill-fitting fur garments, and he still had deep shadows in the sockets of his eyes. There was a bow in his hands, an arrow nocked but not drawn. Laure almost missed the other Dremora. It took several seconds for her to resolve the shadow beside the caitiff into a slumped body reclining on the ground. Then the Sleeper raised her head, nudging herself up on one elbow, and the fire reflected from violet-threaded eyes as she stared toward them. They were closer than last time, and now Laure could make out the peculiar shape of her horns, curled like a ram's tight against her skull.

"Servant of the Aedra," she said. Her voice was very high for a Dremora's, but it still had that nerve-scraping duality, as if two people were speaking and only one was in this plane. "And a second time you have brought this Breton. Why?"

"She was to be here," said Varen. He shrugged one shoulder in his brown robe. "I saw it."

Nobody was asking as if she'd come by choice, she noticed. Maybe she hadn't. _I wouldn't be here if he hadn't carried me. And he _can _see the future, at least a little. _But he'd said earlier that his vision would fail near the Sleeper. _I wonder how much he _has _already seen. _

"You haven't taken a life to strengthen yourself this time," said Tychicus Varen.

"A token of my intent," said Sodrinye. She shook her head slowly. "In this tongue one would say _a token of good faith_."

"There is no _good faith_ among the Kyn," said Varen without rancor.

"There are those against whom we are not at war," rumbled the big caitiff. One gauntlet rested on his mace, but he had not drawn the weapon. He was looking carefully around him as if he expected an ambush.

"You are powerful," said Sodrinye. "But tonight it is not you who cause me alarm. What you fear or intend may be beside the point before the dark is gone again."

Tychicus Varen nodded once. "This I've also seen."

"Then why are you here?" said Sodrinye, and sat upright with a sudden jerk. Laure twitched.

"I don't know," said Varen. "I trust that I will."

"The time for speech is at an end," said the Sleeper, and balled up her doubled fists and hit her own caitiff in the back of the right knee. The joint obligingly buckled, and he fell to one knee with an oath just in time for an arrow to zip past where his head had been a moment before. Laure dove for the accommodating shadow of a pillar and found herself next to the Imperial. She looked around wildly for another place, but he wasn't looking at her. He was just letting go of his bowstring, aiming up into the darkness. The vibrating_ twang _of the weapon was loud beside her ear.

--

"Tell you what," said Menien Goneld, glancing briefly sideways at the little priestess. She was surprisingly plump for someone who must have spent a great deal of time outdoors, reminding him with a pang of someone he had known in a life on the other side of flames and shadows. "I'm not saying we're on the same side, mind you." He squinted up into the dark as he nocked another arrow. There was no movement now. Whoever had skylined himself an instant ago had taken cover rather than risk another shot at the Dremora. _Not such a sloppy thing to do on a cloudy night, but he was blotting out the stars._

"We certainly are _not,_" said the priestess.

"Right. But you leave me alone and I'll leave you alone. Sodrinye might or might not want to hurt you sometime, but I'm pretty sure it's not now."

"That isn't exactly reassuring," said the Breton. If her voice quavered slightly, she recovered her timbre very quickly. "I'm casting night eye now. Please refrain from shooting me."

"I shot your friend because he paralyzed me," said Goneld. "And tied me up and left me. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Good," said the priestess. "Because I don't." She stared up and around, squinting at something Goneld could not see. "That wasn't the action of a sane man. You seem reasonably sane at the moment."

"At the moment I'm not reliving two years in a cage in Hell," said Goneld. "When I can't move the memories get hard to ignore. Now don't talk for a second. I have to listen."

Somewhat to his surprise, she obeyed. He heard the loud tramp of Ebel-Merodach's boots off to the right somewhere, probably carrying Sodrinye into the shadow under the stairs where she would be invisible. _Assuming whoever shot at us can't cast spells and isn't a Khajiit. But that wasn't a Khajiiti silhouette I shot at. Wasn't a skeleton, either, and no zombie could have shot that arrow. There's somebody alive after us._

--

Marcus Barnabas cursed himself silently as he crept along the narrow walkway that lined the courtyard wall halfway up. It had been no joke getting up the wall from the outside while the others were inside talking, and then somehow he'd missed. It looked as if the spellcaster had deliberately knocked the other Dremora down and saved him, and that was _not _typical demon behavior.

He could see the dying fire down below – he was careful not to look directly at it, lest the afterimages blind him to his shadowy surroundings - but its light revealed nothing. Everyone had scattered to cover. Lybiad was somewhere in here as well, supposedly circling toward the stairwell to his left; Tracks-Too-Well was waiting out in the forest, ostensibly on watch but more likely reluctant to come near the two Dremora.

He heard voices briefly, the Imperial and the girl, but they were behind a pillar and out of sight below his ledge. The Imperial had been very quick to return fire, reflexes Marcus did not care for at all – ordinary bandits didn't do that kind of shooting.

Stalking in the dark was an exciting game in training, a tense and ugly one in reality. Darkness had only just fallen, and who knew what would happen if -

Marcus heard a drawn-out hiss, like someone had thrown water onto the fire below, but the glow of the low flame was uninterrupted. Then there was a red light in the main doorway, and a creature flung itself inside and crouched swaying beside the fire. The thing had a woman's body and a woman's face, but it was black as coal from head to toe. A red glow limned it and cast a dim light around it on the ground. _A flame atronach? Here?_

"Kyn!" hissed the atronach. "I know you are here. Come out!"

There was no answer. Barnabas thought about his silver arrows, but they would do very little damage to an elemental creature. For that he would have to get close enough to use his sword, and there was no reason to do that just yet. The atronach was circling the fire slowly, head cocked as if listening. _It doesn't act like it's friendly to the demons. Let's wait and see what happens._


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: The difference in capitalization with the words "kheised" and "dacha" is not accidental. It results from the fact that the atronachs themselves treat these as racial nomenclature, requiring capitalization, while the other races view them simply as adjectives added to the word "atronach" in the Kyntongue. I know it's a tiny detail and it's one I made up, but it matters to me. :)_

Chapter 25

Ebel-Merodach squatted beside the stairwell with his mace in hand. His armored body blocked Sodrinye from being seen or, more importantly, from being shot at by anything outside her dark corner. She was quiet now, and he could not be certain whether she was even awake. _She can gain no further insight now that the atronach priest is here. _His armor glowed slightly in the dark, making him more conspicuous here where it would have camouflaged him against the livid terrain of his own plane, but he was sure the bulk of the stairwell hid him from any prying eyes.

Sodrinye had saved him again. His knee did not hurt; the only reason he had fallen was that it had taken him completely by surprise when she hit him. _It was not my fate. She would have noticed something so obvious as an arrow in my skull if that were part of her vision, _concluded the part of his mind that was still rational and would be to the end. He ought to be humiliated and enraged with her, but he was not.

He wanted very desperately to be here _tomorrow _(that very strange and human word) to tell her exactly how angry he was, of course. He wanted a great many things, at least one of which profoundly shocked him now that he realized it. He'd thought she was ugly the first time he saw her. He had laid hands on her body numerous times with no thought other than to haul her about like an unwieldy corpse. Now that he recognized that he did in fact covet that ugly body very much, it was too late.

He heard the hiss and saw the glow as the flame atronach arrived. Merodach snarled in silent puzzlement. No krynvelhat had shot the arrow that had nearly killed him. _There must be more than one. _It made sense; the human mage must be waiting on the flat ground outside, sending his summoned creature in while he waited out of harm's way. This much was typical krynvelhat behavior.

The fact that the atronach spoke was more than a little unusual, however. Summoned specimens of the _dacha _generally just flung themselves on the nearest target with suicidal fury. He could hear it circling the fire outside, which was unusually thoughtful behavior for one of its kind.

Merodach edged slightly sideways, hefting his mace, and peered around the edge of the stairwell.

--

The Dremora had not heard Lybiad creeping down the stairs. The Blade himself had not been perfectly certain how close he was to them, so it was something of a shock when the caitiff's horned head appeared in front of him. He already had his sword in hand, but the creature's long horns would spoil any decapitating stroke; he froze as he tried to keep track of that and also stay in shadow and out of sight of the flame atronach.

--

_Akhanad had already seen the human on the stairs, but the Master's voice was loud inside her head, chanting words in the Kyntongue. She shook it violently as she tried to get her bearings again. She could sense the Kheised very nearby, a blaze of icy immediacy distracting her from the dim and fleshly presence of the dark kynaz. Powers pulled at her from Oblivion and from Nirn, and she kept herself together only by great effort._

_Then the man on the stairs froze, staring fixedly at something in front of him. Akhanad watched him, but kept circling lest she lose her concentration. After a moment she recognized the dim shape of one horn sticking up past the stone rim of the stairwell. She made a noise of triumph, a hissing roar, and threw the largest ball of fire she could master._

_The caitiff ducked. The human dodged as well, very quickly for a mortal, but the nimbus of her spell burned him. Akhanad grinned ferally at his scream as she started toward the stairwell. The wounded human stared at her, his clothes and flesh both charred on his right side, and then he thrust his weapon down at the caitiff and fled staggering back up the stairs._

--

"What just happened?" demanded Laure in a whisper, trying to see around the Imperial without getting any closer to him.

"The atronach just fried some poor fool on the stairs," muttered the older man. He shifted position slightly where he knelt. "I can't tell if he got Ebel-Merodach or just dropped his sword. The caitiff wouldn't make any noise, you know. Not if he thought it would give away Sodrinye's position."

"You know them well," Laure said. "You really _were _in Oblivion for two years, weren't you."

"Of course I was," he said. He was drawing the bow again.

"You won't do much harm to an atronach with that," said Laure, readying an ice spell. It wasn't a very good one. It would probably just annoy the creature. Could she depend on Tychicus Varen to save her, then? Or would he maintain his neutrality in the face of advancing fate no matter what? _Had _he seen her killed by the other atronach in those visions of his? He'd given her no sign. _But then, he might not._

"They brought me back," said the Imperial quietly. "I have to try - "

"Akhanad," said the voice of Tychicus Varen.

"What's he doing _now?" _said Laure, but she was deeply glad she was already kneeling. Her joints were weak with relief.

"He's standing right by the fire," said the Imperial.

"Ssstand away," said the voice of the flame atronach. Laure heard a couple of footsteps, and then Akhanad backed into her view. "It is a circle I will close, not open. This is no business of yours." Laure felt a vibration from her feet all the way to the top of her head, her teeth clicking against each other as a strange and awful magicka began to rise. "Besides, it is already too late."

--

Sodrinye lay behind Ebel-Merodach and fought to stay awake. There was something important about this moment, about the angle from which she now saw. There was the hard ground beneath her left side and the stairwell at her feet as she lay half-curled, and there was something more important than elemental threat to the _dacha _she heard hissing out in the darkness.

Then there was the ball of flame, and the human's anguished scream –

And then the long, bright sword came darting down and pierced Ebel-Merodach's left breast. He jerked back, ragged teeth clenched in raging silence, and swung the mace with his right arm. The human was already gone.

"Here!" whispered Sodrinye, reaching for him. She felt the debt bond stretch and tremble between them, but the wound was not yet mortal. _I can still heal him. _

In that moment the _dacha_ took her last triumphant step backward as she argued with the priest, carrying an invisible radius to where it covered the two kyn. Sodrinye realized what was happening too late as the summoning began to take hold. She shrieked in helpless fury as she fought with every fiber to stay in Nirn. Ebel-Merodach seized her with his left arm, crushing her against his armored side without regard for his injury. _Her _debtsworn understood. _Her _debtsworn would suffer anything, anything at all, to give her the anchor she needed and keep her near him.

Sodrinye could smell, could _feel _his blood running down his armor and soaking her robe as the movement caused the blade to move inside him. She raged, but could not heal him. It took all her strength not to let herself be torn bodily into the Void. She could hear the other mage now, chanting the summons over and over again in the Kyntongue. _They would steal me back again and leave my caitiff dying in Nirn. _

_I will not allow it._

--

"It is never too late," said Tychicus Varen's voice. Laure saw him step forward, and as he grew and began to change he reached for the flame atronach. The other creature hesitated, and in that instant the atronach Varen seized her by one glowing arm and drew her to him as he backed away from the stairs. Steam rose from a hand made of craggy ice. Then the change was complete, and he picked up the smaller atronach with both hands around her waist and pressed his icy lips to her fiery ones. Mist curled upwards.

Laure was afterwards grateful that she was too stunned to weep.

--

_Akhanad had never been kissed before. It was not a custom common among her kind or, as far as she knew, among the Kheised either. It hurt slightly, as any physical contact with one of the Kheised must, but the sensation of pressure on an anatomical feature she had never had before was so completely novel that she did not resist._

_The one who called himself Varen must have planned it that way. The krynvelhat screamed inside her head for her to get back in range of the Sleeper, but in that instant Akhanad felt her link begin to weaken. She pressed both hands to the icy giant's shining face and returned the kiss, laughing at her own perversity. Let the stupid kynval try and get a grasp on _this, _on all the complex of sensations no one but another elemental would ever be able to share._

_He was hurting her just a little, ice to fire. But she was hurting him back, so that was fair enough._


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Thanks to all those who have left thoughtful, even articulate reviews. I may not have tons of fans here, but the ones I do have are obviously quality. :)_

_I would also like to note that, while under the right circumstances it can take minutes for a person to bleed to death even from a major artery, I've previously stated that Dremora are of faster metabolism and thus bleed more freely than we do. Those concerned about this whole loss-of-soul thing please refer back to the lore discussion at the beginning of Chapter 1 - I'm being consistent with my own canon while taking a small liberty with the game's._

Chapter 26

Sodrinye gasped in incredulous relief as the grip of the summons broke. The atronach was out of range, and she did not stop to think why. All her attention was for Ebel-Merodach, who now lay beside her. His left arm was under her shoulders, but he had let go when he fell. She rolled onto her side, cursing the prison of her stiff skin, and reached out to the sword handle.

The wound had stopped bleeding. Ebel-Merodach lay snarling open-eyed at the black and alien sky of Nirn. His skin was fading from its dark black-and-orange toward a more uniform brown. Sodrinye knew without having to check that he was not breathing. _I have already seen this. _Now that the moment had arrived, she was calm. Sodrinye pulled the sword free as she leaned across his body. She felt the debtbond stretching but unbroken, leading out into the Voidstreams as Ebel-Merodach's undying self was drawn inexorably toward vortex and utter loss of being.

Sodrinye lowered her head, closed her eyes, and leaned out into the Void after him. This was another direction from the one the summoner would have brought her, nearer the level of the gray limbo she knew than the swirl of the Voidstream. _I cannot heal your body without your soul. Return._

The debtbond was meant to stretch only in one direction, from him to her. He could not know the rhedek bound her just as tightly. It must have been quite a shock when she took hold of that thin, barbed line and began to pull. Even now she could not sense emotion nor sensation from him, but she felt it when he began to help from his end – somehow, without a krynvelhat's familiarity with the Void or a Sleeper's ability to navigate, he was pulling himself back toward her.

She felt her fingers tighten on the shoulders of his corpse, holding to that anchor as he had held her. If she lost hold now they would both fall forever, separated from one another and from everything but the Void. She was not asleep, not entirely awake, and the strain was more than she had ever felt.

"Ebel-Merodach," she heard herself say, in the emotionless Sleeper's voice that had been hers for all of her lives. "Return, and live."

She was fading, not toward the gray limbo but toward something deeper and blacker. Still she felt his soul come spiraling back into his body, and with all the strength of desperation and denial she forced the healing charge into his flesh. He jerked under her, and she heard him take his first coughing breath.

For a long time afterwards that was all she knew. It was enough.

--

"Have they stopped?" Goneld heard the priestess ask in a strangled voice. He spared a glance for the two atronachs as he continued scanning the dark courtyard. _That archer is still here somewhere. _

"Yes, he set her down," he said. "Now shhh." The girl obligingly shut up. Goneld's brief look caught her with an expression of stunned loss. He didn't understand for a moment, and then he got it. _Oh. She's not traveling with him because he asked her to. She's soft on the _atronach, _for all the gods' sake._ He supposed it wasn't all that surprising. Girls fell in love with schoolteachers all the time. And she surely hadn't always known he was a daedra. _Not 'til it was too late, I'll bet._

He'd been that thrown by the loss of a woman himself. A lifetime ago, before his world was made of cage bars and fires and pointed boots.

Goneld heard the Sleeper's voice say something he didn't catch, and then there was a guttural cough from that direction. _So Ebel-Merodach isn't dead yet. I thought sure he'd bought it when that poor bastard stabbed him. _He wondered if the initial shock of the burns had worn off yet. He didn't hear any screams. Perhaps the man was one of the lucky ones and had quietly passed away before he felt the pain. Burn victims in Oblivion could stay alive for days. _The atronach priest could heal him, but I bet he didn't know that. _There was something about the sword he'd seen, a bare glimpse as it darted downward toward the Dremora's hiding place. It was very long and thin, too flat for a rapier...

_It was a katana, _he realized, dredging up the shape of the hilt. _And nobody in Cyrodiil carries those in this day and age except..._

"Flaming Akatosh," said Goneld quietly. "The Emperor's Blades."

"What?" said the girl, shaking herself.

"The man who got burned was carrying a katana," said Menien Goneld. He risked another look around the column. The two atronachs were still standing beside the fire, talking in low and urgent voices.

"Oh. Yes, I'm afraid Brother Varen and I ran into a pair of those earlier today," she said. Her voice was level as she said his name. She was frowning now. "But they were both Redguards. That man looked paler."

"He was," said Goneld. "What happened to those two Redguards?"

"Brother Varen left them paralyzed," said the girl. "He seemed to think the effect would last for some time."

"Let's hope it has," muttered Goneld.

--

_Akhanad wriggled free of the Kheised's grip, landing easily on her feet. She could sense the Master raging as she tried to prepare another summons, but it was too late for that. Akhanad was not in the Void now, but in another plane. She would not allow the link between them to reform enough for the kynaz to summon her again._

"_You freed me from the summons," she said, shaping the words with a still-unfamiliar palate and tongue. "Why?"_

"_It was not only for your sake," said the metallic bass of the ice atronach who had called himself Varen. Akhanad watched as the eight-foot creature shrank down to her own height, recovering his previous peculiar color scheme. "Much harm would come to this plane if I let the Citadel of Natural Disaster retrieve this Sleeper."_

"_Yes," agreed Akhanad. "But I would not mind doing it again." She was already healed from the minor damage the surface of the Kheised had done her, and his mortal form showed no marks at all._

_The Kheised, now once again a stubby mortal in shape, smiled. "We will see. For now I have things to do here which you will only hinder. I do not need anyone killed."_

"_Really? Why not?" said Akhanad suspiciously. This struck her as typical and needlessly complicated Kheised reasoning. "You and I could kill all of them, and no one would ever know we were here."_

"_You serve no one," said Varen. "I have taken an oath against destruction for the one whom I _do _serve. I will not break it for your sake, young one."_

"_Suit yourself," said Akhanad. "I am going away now. Perhaps I will find you again when I have learned to shape myself better." She looked at him slyly, fingering the strands of hair she had grown. "What color do you like?"_

"_Anything but red," said Varen dryly. "Goodbye, Akhanad."_

"_Nonsense," said Akhanad, and turned and ran out the gateway into the night, grinning with fearsome cheer._

_--_

Marcus Barnabas knelt beside Lybiad at the top of the stairs. He was out of magicka, and the small spell of healing that he knew was not enough to heal the other agent's horrible wounds. His two small health potions had had no apparent effect at all.

He had seen the priest become an atronach, which explained a little, although he neither suspected nor cared what the kiss was about. Then Lybiad had come running up the stairs in a perfectly natural way, started to say something, and then collapsed. His burns stank horribly, and there was nothing Marcus could do for them. Lybiad's unburnt skin was deathly white. He was breathing quickly and shallowly. _He's in shock and he's going to die, _Marcus thought_. I can't stop it._

_But there's at least one person here who can._

Marcus sheathed his sword and unlimbered his bow as he moved toward the edge of the stone walkway. "Tychicus Varen," he called down. The priest, now apparently human again, turned to look up at him across the fire. It was nothing but coals now, probably in response to the chill from his other form. At the moment he looked utterly ordinary. His eyes had even gone back to being brown.

"Yes," said Varen, as calmly as if Marcus had come up to him in the Chapel at Bruma. "Why, I believe it is Brother Marcus. This is rather a different circumstance from that in which I've known you."

"I think you know why I'm here," Marcus said. He heard movement below, the two Dremora still down at the bottom of the stairs.

"Yes," said Tychicus Varen. He folded his hands in front of him. "But you won't succeed. In fact, I'm quite certain you'll die in the attempt. Unless my previous insight fails me, your companion already has."

Marcus went back to check on Lybiad. He was dead, just like that.

"Gods damn you to every Hell, demon," he said, quietly but with feeling, as he returned to the edge. "I'm not saying I liked him, but he was a Blade."

"I didn't kill him," said Tychicus Varen. "No more than I would kill you, my brother. Even the flame atronach did not intend harm to him specifically. She was aiming for the caitiff."

--

"Then her aim was very bad," muttered Laure. She knelt leaning against the pillar, wondering how much of her thoughts had shown on her face just now. The Imperial hadn't said anything. He was slowly drawing his bow. "What are you doing?"

_--_

Ebel-Merodach coughed as the massive healing charge hit. It hurt more than the fatal wound had. The last few seconds were dim and confused, what someone more familiar with human thought would call _a bad dream_, but of one thing he was perfectly certain: he had been dead, and was alive. The Sleeper lay draped heavily across his chest. He sat up slowly as he gathered Sodrinye into his lap. She was utterly limp, but she was breathing. Her robe was soaked with blood, but all of it was his.

The weight of the debt bond across his shoulders had lifted. In its place there was something else, a spiky anchor in the middle of himself and a chain drawing away toward Sodrinye. _She did try to explain it to me once. I did not understand._

"Little fool," he said, and shook his head and looked around for his mace as he laid her carefully on the stone paving. Debtsworn were made to be spent. That, as the Xivilai had said to her not so very long ago, was what they were for. But then, it wasn't a debtsworn she wanted. It was Ebel-Merodach (as she had almost certainly told the Xivilai, he now suspected). He understood the imperative now that it was too late, of course. The rhedek was like that.


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Amazingly, no one has yet complained that the Chapel of Arkay isn't actually in Bruma. Whoops. Since this is pretty well established in my miniverse canon I'm afraid I'll have to leave it there..._

Chapter 27

The Kynmarcher was there watching as Ghatha began the process of summoning the Sleeper back into the Citadel. All his other kynreeves were there, too, waiting in predatory anticipation of failure. Ghatha's latest attempt to gain his favor had not improved her standing with her peers.

When she failed, when the cord of summoning was cut despite her earnest and clever efforts, no one laughed. They were looking at the Kynmarcher. Ghatha stood rigid, upright in spite of her exhaustion, and waited for his verdict.

The Kynmarcher folded his arms, rattling his heavy armor. "It was a clever idea," he said. "But you have failed. We will not recover this Sleeper."

"My lord," began Ghatha, but he was already drawing his sword. The kynreeves grinned in anticipation, and now one or two _did _laugh, but quietly.

"We will withdraw from this Citadel," said the Kynmarcher. "I have listened to you too long, krynvelhat bitch." He took one long step and swung his claymore. A nearer kynreeve ducked to avoid Ghatha's flying head. Her body toppled over slowly.

"One of you go find her apprentice and kill him, too," said the Kynmarcher. "Don't kill her more than twice more." He grinned, as a man might at a good joke. "But take your time."

--

Ebel-Merodach knelt on one knee, listening, and tried to determine what he had missed. The flame atronach was gone, Dagon only knew where. The fire had more or less gone out, but his eyes were beginning to adapt to the unnatural darkness that was _night _in this plane. He could just make out the atronach priest Varen, who was talking to someone over his head. A faint whiff of burnt flesh from that direction made him as close to homesick as it is possible for a kynaz to be, but he was able to ignore that.

He was alive, his Sleeper was alive, and the debt bond stood. Something that had been knotted for a while was unwinding inside him, threatening to throw him off balance. _And that I cannot allow. _He'd had nothing to drink in too long, and Sodrinye's healing had not given back all his lost blood. He could lift his mace, but he would be slower than customarily. Merodach narrowed his eyes, calculating.

It might have been easier if Sodrinye were awake, but she was not. He should not have to depend on overwhelming magical power for victory in any case. That had been beneath him before he met her and it should be so now.

If the reflexes of the man who had stabbed him were anything to go by, the angry human overhead would not be easily killed. _They are smaller, and very quick, and unburdened by this armor. _He had noticed a certain agility in Menien Goneld, who was certainly older as mortals counted it than the man Varen was calling Marcus. And to mortals age meant weakness, not strength.

Menien Goneld was still alive. Ebel-Merodach could see the faint gleam of the alien stars on the arrow he had nocked and on the bald top of his head. Someone was crouched there behind him, the Breton female if size was anything to go by. Neither seemed to be the other's prisoner, which puzzled Merodach. But then, if Goneld was anything to go by, humans formed attachments and hostilities with startling rapidity.

Try as he might, he could hear or sense no one else nearby. _No blood has been shed but mine. _Embarrassment does not come easily to a kynaz, or he might have been embarrassed at that. At the moment there was work to do. Ebel-Merodach bared his teeth at the battle to come. Then he hefted the mace and started up the stairs, making no attempt to be quiet.

--

The Breton girl seized Goneld's arm as he was about to fire. "You can't do that," she hissed.

"I bloody well can," said Goneld. The grip of her small hand on his arm was not very strong, but it would throw off his aim. For some reason which, at the time, he did not clearly understand, he didn't shrug her off.

"Not in cold blood," said the girl. "Surely you're not so far gone as that."

"What makes you think so?" said Goneld. He'd lost his chance, anyway. The Blade was back away from the edge now. No doubt he'd heard Merodach on his way up the stairs. Goneld saw the gleam of the Dremora armor disappearing up the stairwell. The tramp of heavy boots was quite audible.

Goneld looked pointedly at the girl's hand on his arm. She blushed and withdrew it.

"You wouldn't have made that charming offer when we both ended up back here," she said, rallying quickly. "And even when you shot Varen, you didn't mean to kill him. You said so."

"That's true," Goneld said. He looked at her as if for the first time. She really was young – not yet twenty if he wasn't mistaken. Of course, it had been a long time since he'd seen a human face this closely, even in the dark. _Especially in the dark. _She was short, and plumpish, and her hair was an undistinguished shade of brown. But there was something in her face... A little sharp, like her tongue. "How long have you been a priestess?" he said.

"Er," said the girl. "A few months now."

"Up in Bruma?" said Goneld.

"Yes. They needed a new priestess because one of the other novices ran off to join the Chapel of Dibella. Why?" she looked at him suspiciously.

"No reason," said Menien Goneld, and shrugged his shoulders under the sudden return of weight. _I'll have to stick by the demons. I still owe them more than they owe me. _"My name's Menien, by the way. What's yours?"

"Laure," she said. "I'm afraid I followed Varen when he left the Chapel – I was curious, and he's supposed to have been so many interesting places." Here she eyed him challengingly, but Goneld took this in stride. "I suppose I'll know better next time."

"I had to learn that one, too," agreed Goneld without force. "Took a lot more. You're lucky you're smarter than I was."

He peered around the column. Tychicus Varen had not moved. He stood looking toward the doorway into the courtyard with his hands folded in front of him. It seemed he had dismissed the fully armed and very angry Blade from his attention. _You won't succeed. In fact, I'm quite certain you will die in the attempt_, he had said.

Laure seemed to be prey to a similar recollection. "He's always very polite," she said in a more subdued voice. "And he is kind to those in need, because it falls within his oath of service. It's easy to forget how very cold he is. I suppose that's why no one has ever realized he isn't human."

Goneld heard this, correctly, as _That's why _I _didn't realize. _There would be a lot of sleepless and stinging nights for Laure in the near future. He remembered, albeit dimly and as one far away, what it was like to be that age. What the atronach thought about it no one could say; was there any such stage in the life of a daedra, any such heated and embarrassed time of life? Goneld thought not.

"Ebel-Merodach would never pass, I know that," said Goneld. "I don't know that he'd want to try." _I wonder if it really was just the two Blades. I wonder where those two Redguards are now..._

--

Marcus Barnabas heard the tramp of boots on the stairs as he was halfway there. He stepped quickly back into a shadow beside Lybiad's body, listening. There was a rumbling growl from that direction. _It's the big caitiff. _Marcus thought quickly, his rage clearing with the necessity of the moment. He could change weapons and fire before the kynaz got to him. The question was whether he could hit anything vital enough to kill before the kynaz reached him. He would not get a second shot.

_I'd have to get him in the eye socket or the mouth, and in the dark I don't like the odds. _Marcus adjusted his grip on the sword as he stood in the dark. He was not sure what weapon the kynaz had, but he did know the creature's head was unarmored except for his horns. The massive Dremora cuirass – it would not be daedric, not on a low-ranking kynaz like this one – would provide some protection to his throat, and if he normally fought without a helm he would be accustomed to hunch up his shoulders so that the pauldrons could serve that purpose. _I'll have to try for the armor's joints or go for his face. A caitiff won't be so very fast._

He expected it to be easy. He'd killed caitiffs and churls before.

None of them was Ebel-Merodach, who had collected twenty-five hundred souls.

--

Merodach showed his shoulder around the top of the stairwell. No missile arrived to rebound from his pauldron. Merodach stood listening for a moment, then peered each way down the broad walkway that circled the inside of the tower. The human who had stabbed him lay off to his left, giving off the familiar smell of burnt flesh and death. The stone walls cast harsh shadows in the disorienting starlight, foiling his vision.

Would a human fighter be far from the corpse, in inexplicable but very human distaste for that reminder of mortality? Or would he be nearby, expecting the corpse to serve as a distraction? Ebel-Merodach considered this briefly, then stepped out toward the corpse. He was partly in shadow now, and his head would not be easy to aim at from behind if he had guessed wrong. From the front his glowing eyes would be an easy target, as Menien Goneld had been so quick to point out. Merodach held the mace high to protect his face, disdaining the way this punished the exhausted and blood-deprived muscles in his arm and shoulder.

"I know you are there," said Ebel-Merodach in Cyrodilic. "Come out so that I can kill you."

The form of a man darted from the shadow beside the body, long blade flashing in starlight. Ebel-Merodach registered that he was holding it low just in time to turn face-on to the blade, causing the point to score his belly plates rather than punch through the seam of the cuirass. The man quickly recovered and swung back at Merodach's head, but he was ready for that, too. He knocked the blade aside with an armored elbow and struck the man a glancing blow on the shoulder with his mace. An attempt to crush the enemy's ribs would have failed. Merodach would have had to turn fully and he would not have been fast enough. Now the two disengaged, standing back warily from each other.

Merodach bared his teeth at the set of scratches the flanges of the mace had inflicted on the man's shoulder. The heady scent of blood rose from the neat slits in the shoulder of his leather tunic. Merodach was very thirsty, his throat raw.

"Go back to Hell," said the human.

"You are poisoned," said Ebel-Merodach. "If you flee and seek help now, perhaps you will live."

"There's no help out here," said the man. "Not for me. Not for you." He jabbed forward again, and this time Merodach moved his head to one side to avoid it. The man tried to kick the back of Merodach's knee as he whirled past, one of the better ways to unbalance a kynaz in full armor. Merodach knew that one. He stiffened his leg against the blow, and the armor absorbed the shock.

To fight so defensively was profoundly undesirable, but weakness still dragged at his arms and legs. Merodach pivoted as the human circled him, watching as he was watched. The human tried a feint, hoping to lure him off balance that way. Even with the scent of blood strong in his nostrils, Merodach did not take the bait.

Then the human's eyes widened in realization as the poison began to take effect. He made another cut at Merodach's head, but the movement was slower, untidy. Merodach caught it on one pauldron and shrugged off the blade. The man staggered, no feint this time. Merodach swatted the sword out of his hand with the mace. He sheathed the weapon and drew his belt knife as the man fell to his knees.

The man came up with a knife of his own from somewhere as Merodach was reaching for him. His wild swipe managed to cut a slice of Merodach's left hand, and then Merodach jabbed him in the side of the neck and fastened his yellow teeth around the hole, crushing his enemy in his armored grip.

One of the advantages to poison by enchantment is that it does not linger in the victim's blood. Fast he might be, but he was not as strong as a kynaz. He only struggled for a few seconds.


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: I personally think Laure's psychology is sound. Girls who are overly precocious aren't likely to be attractive to or attracted by boys their own age, so it's not uncommon for them to be more comfortable with older men._

Chapter 28

Laure knelt awkwardly beside the Imperial, trying to listen. There was a scrape of feet somewhere above, and a short exchange of words in deep voices. Soon afterward there was a snarl.

"Merodach won," said the man.

"Are you sure?" asked Laure.

"I've heard that noise before," said the Imperial. "Besides, as long as Sodrinye's still alive I'd back him against an army. You know what a debt bond is, to a kynaz?"

"No," said Laure.

"I probably don't either," he said. "Not even me. But it's more than love and maybe more than honor, and it's not the same as either one. When we came here he hated her enough to kill her and he'd still have walked through - " He laughed shortly. "Well. Fire doesn't seem right, they do that anyway."

Confirming his first statement, the tramp of heavy boots heralded the big Dremora's descent down the stairs. Laure watched, feeling a small ball of fear in the pit of her stomach. She was no longer sure of Brother Varen, not at _all _sure of the Dremora, and now the two Blades were dead.

"Now what happens?" she asked levelly.

"Menien Goneld," said the Dremora. He looked around the dark courtyard, the starlight gleaming in his fiery eyes. They lit on Laure with no apparent expression.

"Still here," said the Imperial, and stood up. Laure stood up as well, trying to see around the man's body.

"Menien Goneld?" she said, fear momentarily forgotten in favor of intense curiosity. "Is that your name?"

"That's right," said the man.

"Are you sure you should allow the aedra priest behind you?" said the Dremora, but he seemed only casually interested. He turned away toward the shadow beside the stairway, where the Sleeper presumably lay.

"She won't hurt me," said Goneld. "I'm the closest thing to human in this place. Isn't that right, girl?"

"There was a Legionnaire who was lost at the Kvatch gate," said Laure slowly. "The one who told the Hero of Kvatch how to find the sigil stone. I thought... I thought _his _name was Menien Goneld."

"Oh, yes," said the Imperial, now moving warily toward the stairwell. "Is Thrissi still alive? I always thought she'd make it one way or another." Laure perforce followed, glancing only briefly at Tychicus Varen. He was still staring out into the night through the doorway.

"As far as I know, she is. She helped protect the Emperor Martin right up until the end, though I've no idea where she went afterwards. But everyone believes you're dead," said Laure. "You've been awarded all sorts of medals. Posthumously, that is."

"That seems about right," said Menien Goneld. "If they found out I was alive they'd have an awful lot of questions to ask that I don't want to answer, I can tell you that."

"What?" said Laure.

"Think it through," said Goneld. He stopped beside the stairwell, edging into the shadow so that he would not be visible from a distance. Laure looked past him at the big caitiff who was now on one knee beside the darker Dremora. She lay crumpled as if dead, but she apparently must be alive; he hoisted her onto one shoulder and stood up easily.

Laure did think it through. _Tychicus Varen believes he's only half sane. I thought so myself. And he's been a prisoner in Hell and survived it. How many will believe he didn't make some sort of deal for himself? How many will believe he hasn't been a traitor in one way or another, to have lived this long? And if they found out about these two Dremora..._

"Oh," said Laure quietly. "Yes, it's something of a problem, isn't it."

"These two brought me back here," said Goneld. "I've got to do what I can for them, thought that's not much." The big Dremora snorted, whether in denial or ironic agreement Laure could not tell. He seemed to have accepted her on Goneld's word that she was harmless, previous events notwithstanding. _They trust him. Most people would find that alone entirely damning._

_And what about me? _She wondered. _Where shall _I _go now? If I go back to Bruma I will see Tychicus Varen every day and he will be consistently and relentlessly polite, the same way he always is. I can't bear that._ "Will you all stay here, then?" she asked.

"I do not know," said Ebel-Merodach. "The Sleeper will not be able to speak for some," he apparently sought a word, "hours as you would count it. Until then we will stay here and I will build up the fire again. This place is very cold and she has much from which to recover." He took her over beside the coals and dumped her unceromoniously onto the ground; Laure winced as one curly horn bounced against the stones. Ebel-Merodach turned to look at Tychicus Varen. One gauntlet lingered near his mace.

"And you, Kheised," he said. "What will you do?"

"I will go back to Bruma," said Tychicus Varen. "I believe what I was called here for is accomplished. There will probably be two more Blades here before morning. I warn you only because the Sleeper will probably be unable to divine for some while, as I will."

"I see," said Ebel-Merodach.

Varen turned toward Laure. She could not see him well in the dim light. He probably looked much as he always had. _Much as he always will. _"Sister Laure," he said. "Will you return with me to Bruma?"

"No," said Laure. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes," said Varen, easily overriding the beginning of a protest from Goneld. "But consider carefully what you do here. There will be no returning to the service of Arkay if you stay." His voice was calm, almost gentle. She had no way of knowing if he knew or understood. _Probably more than I would wish._

"I know," said Laure. "Will you tell them for me at the Chapel? Not about these," she waved a hand at the others. "But that I won't be coming back."

"I will tell them," said Tychicus Varen. He nodded at Menien Goneld, who was watching with an expression that Laure could not read in the dark. "She is not as helpless as you think her, Menien Goneld. No priestess of Arkay could be so."

"I'm sure that's true," said Laure. She looked sideways at the Imperial. "I know you're not exactly safe to be around. I will take my chances."

"I think you're crazy," said Goneld bluntly. "But if the Sleeper says you can stay, I'm not going to say no. We'll find out tomorrow."

"But I must go tonight," said Tychicus Varen. "There are yet things I must do. Laure, I cannot say you will be safe, for that would not be true – but I think you will be happy. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Varen," said Laure. She was proud, later, that there was no break in her voice at all.

He was gone, just like that. In the doorway behind where he had stood were the two Redguards. The starlight fell coldly on the blades of two katanas, and on two faces as stiff and cold as the stones of the floor.

--

Sodrinye was expecting the gray limbo this time, the absence of vision that resulted from proximity to Tychicus Varen. She held herself still for a while as she tried to listen. The flame atronach was long gone from this bit of the ether, and if the krynvelhat who had sent it was still alive, she was not nearby. Sodrinye had no precognition on the point, but she suspected that failure at such a gamble would not be tolerated by the lord of the citadel who had now lost his chance of retrieving Sodrinye.

_Not completely, perhaps, _she thought_. But he will not wish to expend the resources. He no doubt has enemies at his gate already, and the occupation of Natural Disaster must have cost him in ways he can ill afford._

That krynvelhat might be making her way through the Voidstreams even now, but Sodrinye could not sense anything of that kind from this place. It was enough to know that Merodach was nearby and not in much danger. _Else I must wake. _

"_Ka rhedek _indeed," she whispered to the swirling mist. "But not from my side only, thanks be to Dagon." If Dagon ought to be thanked. She suspected that particular daedra had no interest whatsoever in her. Chaos and change were his attributes. Even the rigid and consistent chaos of the way the Kyn lived must occasionally throw up variants like herself, each one a locus for new and swirling form in the great unpatterning of all things.

She sought out and around herself for other Sleepers, curious now. She felt some echo of Drurinye's recent presence, but she was now what passed for awake, no doubt doing some work for the one to whom she belonged. _Onesimus, she called him, and that is an Imperial name rather than a kyn one._

There was one other nearby. Under normal circumstances the blur of visions would have obscured her presence, even something as powerfully bright as a Sleeper, but Sodrinye felt her now. She did not see Sodrinye. She was immersed in vision herself. Sodrinye reached out to push away the mist, moving in a direction roughly approximating forward. The other Sleeper stood there before her. Both her horns were broken off at the tips. For the damage to persist here in limbo, where they did not have bodies as such, it must have been done very early in her first incarnation.

"Sister," said Sodrinye. The other kynaz was taller than she, and even thinner, but she had the same dark skin and eyes. Now she stood dully on the substance of the Void, eyes scanning things Sodrinye could not see. Sodrinye reached out tentatively to prod one of her arms, not wishing the gesture to be mistaken for aggression. "Sister!"

The other Sleeper shook her head suddenly. Her eyes focused on Sodrinye as she moved back a pace. "What do you want?" she said.

"I am Sodrinye," she said. "And I am in Nirn."

"This cannot be," said the other. Sodrinye felt half her attention, dull disbelief. "No terrestrial mage can summon us."

"There is no lie here in the Void," said Sodrinye. "I was not summoned. I traveled here myself." She had the other's full attention now.

"I am Pelinrye," said the other Sleeper. "Tell me how you have done this thing, and how you survive."

Sodrinye explained it all from the beginning, quickly lest she lose her sister to visions again. "But debtsworn he must be," she said. "There are other qualities which you will know when you see them. Drurinye did not bring a mortal with her, but I think it will serve you well if you treat it well."

"If I could find one whose mind was not broken," said Pelinrye. She did not necessarily trust Sodrinye, but it was true that no one could lie in this place, certainly not one Sleeper to another.

"They are surprisingly resilient," said Sodrinye. "That I leave to your discretion. Do as you will; in any case it takes some time to hoard enough power for the trip, and it is a dangerous journey. I ask only that you tell any other Sleepers you meet and with whom you are not at war."

"I will," said Pelinrye, and was lost in vision again.

Sodrinye turned and pushed back through the mist. She thought she sensed something from Nirn now, something requiring her attention, and waking would not be easy.


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Some of you might notice I've written the Blades as nearer to a special force than they appear in the game. If they were as inept as they are in Oblivion, it would be easy to see how they managed to lose two Septims in just a few short months (depending on how long you take on the main quest) and need their hands constantly held by some lowlife they hooked out of the Imperial Prison (meaning the player character). _

_And White Wolf Zita: I felt so bad for Goneld in the game that I tried making a mod where the player could rescue him, but it was too problematic since he's part of the Main Quest and I am no scripter (I model and texture mostly). He's such a courageous and self-sacrificing character and there's no way to help him out – even the Hero of Kvatch can't get off the plot rails. _

_You probably couldn't tell he was a canon character in an OC fanfic because none of my characters is an overly described human vampire assassin who is his sibling/cousin/child. They always pick Lucien LaChance for that..._

Chapter 29

Goneld took one look at the two Redguards and decided they weren't going to waste any time talking. Consequently, he had his arrow nocked before they were three steps into the enclosure. They were moving fast for men carrying swords, but that was only to be expected; and he was sure he would be the first to be cut down anyway. That's what _he _would have done.

He was wrong. The nearer man jinked to Goneld's right, going for the big Dremora. Goneld raised an eyebrow at this and aimed for his eye socket. He missed. The Redguard was moving to fast for him to draw an accurate bead in the dark. The arrow _pinged _off a distant stone wall.

One man reached Ebel-Merodach slightly before the other. The kynaz knocked the first sweeping blow aside with the head of his mace. He might have been decapitated by the other Redguard, except that the girl Laure knocked the charging Blade back a step with a lightning spell. It was a better charge than Goneld had expected, even from a Breton, but the Redguard's garments were undoubtedly enchanted to resist spells. He shook his head as the blue fingers of lightning faded and turned toward Laure. The blade of the katana came up inexorably, glittering in the starlight.

Goneld dropped the bow and drew his shortsword. He had no chance, of course – not against a much younger man in constant practice with a Blade's training to boot – but he couldn't let the girl be gutted like a fish without offering some sort of resistance. Time seemed to slow down as the Blade took a dancing step forward, eyes flickering between Goneld and Laure.

The world seemed to explode. Goneld felt a blast of radiant heat on his right side and found himself airborne, still holding tightly to his sword. There was no knowing where it would end up if he let go, he thought. Then he landed on his left shoulder, knocking the wind out of himself. He scrambled to his feet as he tried to reinflate his lungs. His eyebrows felt singed. _Which means..._

One Redguard was gone, scorched to ashes by the fireball that had knocked Goneld sideways. The other had already rolled to his feet. It was too dark to tell if he had been caught in the blast nimbus. Ebel-Merodach stood between him and the Sleeper. Sodrinye lay propped on one elbow. Steam still rose from the fingers of one limp hand.

"So much for _him,_" said Goneld under his breath. He could see the sprawled form of Laure off to his right if he glanced that way.

"Interfering female," said Ebel-Merodach, but he sounded more amused than annoyed. The Redguard took another swing at him, but he blocked this one easily. Goneld sheathed his shortsword and looked around for his bow. It lay over by where Laure was.

Goneld's ears were ringing. The clash of the Redguard's katana against the Dremora's mace sounded tinny and distant. He went to get the bow, keeping a wary eye on the combatants. Both seemed to be ignoring him, though the Redguard was now making shift to keep Merodach between himself and the Sleeper. _Though if he does kill the caitiff she'll get him anyway. I wonder if he knows. _

Laure groaned. Goneld went to squat next to her once he had the bow in hand. She didn't appear to have any real burns, although her eyebrows had suffered the same as Goneld's. He couldn't tell if there was blood in her brown hair. _She must've hit her head when she landed. _He was strangely relieved that she wasn't dead. He didn't know yet whether he liked her, but it would be difficult to lose the only human being he'd talked to for more than a sentence in the last two years or so. There had been a point in his life where he had associated this sort of mindset with weakness. _It probably _is _weakness. That doesn't make it go away, though._

He looked up at a loud _clang. _The Redguard had taken another swipe at Ebel-Merodach and had it deflected from a heavy pauldron. The kynaz's armor still glowed faintly in the dark. The man's shirt was torn where the mace had evidently connected, but he wasn't moving as if his ribs were broken as he edged to one side. Merodach turned to follow him.

"Is it over?" asked Laure. Goneld put a hand under her shoulder and helped her sit up.

"It will be soon," he said. "Merodach's mace is poisoned."

"Why would he poison a _mace?_" said Laure muzzily.

"I'd guess it's because he doesn't know how to use a sword," said Goneld. "They're not really a flexible race." _That'd be just like a kynaz, to have eternity to learn every weapon in creation and just not bother with it_.

There was a soft _thump _as the Redguard hit the ground. One last lightning reflex sent the katana in an invisibly quick blow at Merodach's ankle, but it struck harmless sparks from the black metal of his heavy boot. Goneld felt rather than saw Laure's wince as Merodach brought the other boot down on the man's head, just to be sure. The sound it made was one he doubted she would quickly forget.

"Stand back from the body," said Sodrinye. Merodach stepped to one side. Laure looked sideways at Goneld.

"We're probably all right here," he said, but he covered his eyes with one hand just in case. Anything he might have said further was drowned out by the roaring _whoosh _of another enormous fireball.

Goneld lowered his hand. This time the conflagration had left behind a merry little blaze in the small firepit. He could see the others fairly well, including the dark stain in Laure's hair. She was just uncovering her own eyes. He watched as she raised one unsteady hand. Blue light spiraled up around her wrist and fingers. Some of the drying blood turned to dust and drifted away. There was still some left.

"Have you also injured yourself, Menien Goneld?" inquired Merodach dryly. Laure did not even blush at this, which led Goneld to suspect the head injury might be more serious than he'd supposed.

"No," said Goneld. "But then, I've survived Sodrinye's attempts at the subtle craft of magicka before. Can you stand up?" he asked Laure. She held out a hand, and he hoisted her to her feet as he stood up. She was an unsurprisingly solid weight. She remained upright, swaying slightly.

"Aren't you going to heal yourself again?" he said.

"I'm afraid I have run out of magicka," she said, enunciating carefully.

Goneld led Laure over toward the fire and the two Dremora. "This is probably going to hurt," he said.

"Really? Why?" said Laure. Sodrinye raised one hand. Goneld caught Laure's elbow to keep her from falling over when the massive charge of blue magicka hit. Bruises he'd acquired earlier faded suddenly as the nimbus of the spell caught him.

"Oh," said Laure, when she could stand up straight again. "I see." She looked down at Sodrinye, who was watching them with no more expression than usual. "Thank you."

"I suggest we pass the rest of the night inside," said Sodrinye. She used the word easily, with no sign that _day_ and _night _had been strange concepts a month ago. "Someone may come to see what happened to these men. They will not search far into the ruin."

"That's because they'll assume nothing can _survive _in there," said Menien Goneld, carefully letting go of Laure's elbow. "It's full of restless dead."

"Restless human dead," said Sodrinye. It didn't sound like a question. She reached for the lower edge of Ebel-Merodach's cuirass, wrapped her fingers around what appeared to be the least sharp point on it, and began to haul herself ungracefully upright. Merodach seized her by the shoulder and lifted her easily onto her feet.

"Probably," said Goneld, looking up at the bulk of the keep. "It's an old Imperial fort. Even now, the Legion is almost all human."

"I don't think it'll be just skeletons and zombies," said Laure slowly. "The atmosphere of evil is very strong. There likely is a lich inside."

Goneld looked at the two Dremora. "That bother you?"

"What is a lich?" asked Ebel-Merodach.


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Does anybody wonder why there are only human undead around Cyrodiil? The game mechanics at least make it possible for other races to become vampires, but there are no pointy-noised Khajiit zombies or shrivel-tusked Orcish liches. I'm sure the real reason is Bethesda Softworks's desire not to make all the extra meshes, but surely there must be some sort of lore explanation somewhere?_

_Morrowind escaped this particular type of stupidity. There were no zombies in the game to cause that inconsistency, there were beast race vampires even among the NPCs, and the Sleeper cult were all Dunmeri because it was a movement among natives of the province and intimately tied to the Dunmer culture and history. Oblivion causes itself not a few inconsistencies of this type by being less creative with its lore, and even M'aiq the Liar has no sarcastic explanation for this one (meaning the NPC who sometimes says apologetics for the gaming company, not the screen name of the person on this site)._

Chapter 30

"You explain," Goneld said to Laure. She looked at him in apparent surprise. "I've never seen one," he said patiently. "Whereas you're a priestess of Arkay. Right?"

"Not any more," she said. "But... I've only seen one lich, and that after it was fully dead. I was only an acolyte. They let me into the ruin when it was all over." She shook her head as if to clear it, then turned to face the two Dremora more squarely. If she had ever been afraid of them, it was not now apparent. _But then, she's been traveling with a frost atronach. She hasn't been seeking out ordinary company. _"A lich is a human or elven undead," she said. "Some are left from the time of the Ayleids. Some are very new. The Ayleids are often more powerful, but all liches are fearsome. A person who dies can be made into other sorts of undead by a necromancer. One must choose to become a lich. That gives them power and it lets them retain more of a grasp on thought and sanity than zombies or ghosts usually do. Their bodies are just mummified corpses, not very strong. The trouble is that they're extremely powerful spellcasters and it is very hard to get close enough to them to do physical damage. They can hover above the ground, and they tend to collect magical artifacts."

Ebel-Merodach snorted. "Then they are _krynvelhat. _If there is such a creature inside, it will not be more powerful than Sodrinye."

"Very likely," said Laure dryly. "If she can easily repeat what I just saw."

"For a little while longer," said Sodrinye. "Then unless I can find a living soul to take, I will sleep."

"Not much chance of one of those down there," said Menien Goneld. "And I wasn't planning to volunteer." Ebel-Merodach looked at him, then at Laure. He raised one heavy eyebrow. Goneld felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. _They're not human. There's no reason to expect them to act as if they were. _

"No," he said aloud. "She's not an enemy. She stayed of her own free will."

"What?" said Laure. Then she must have realized what he was talking about. Goneld gave her credit for quick intelligence; she turned a little pale, but it was Sodrinye she looked to for the answer.

"I will not harm you," said Sodrinye to Laure. She laid a hand on the caitiff's arm, as if for support. "Nor will Ebel-Merodach. The atronach knew this, or he would not have left you here."

"Why?" said Merodach. "We owe nothing to this creature, and she has nothing to offer us." His tone was not angry, merely curious. He did not shrug away Sodrinye's hand.

"That remains to be seen," said Sodrinye. "I think it will be better for Menien Goneld to have one of his own kind nearby." Which was very near to what Goneld had been thinking himself, though not half so bluntly. "And he has shown you already that she has information he does not have. Laure, will you swear not to harm Ebel-Merodach?"

"I swear," said Laure bemusedly. "I don't imagine I could if I wished."

"And will you swear not to harm Menien Goneld?" Sodrinye went on, ignoring this. Goneld watched as Laure recognized, much as he had, that the Sleeper was deadly serious.

"Yes, of course," said Laure.

"Then you will have our protection for as long as we are able to give it," said Sodrinye. "Come. We will go inside."

---

The largest chamber inside Fort Ashen had once been a mess hall. Now it was half full of water. The lake side of the great building had settled considerably more than the other one, lending the great square room a distinct tilt. The air shaft in one corner was half-choked with vines, but it let in a small amount of dim blue light. Fungal growths at the water's edge added a tiny bit more. A thin mist crept across the lapping surface, reflecting the light as it moved.

Only the corner of the room furthest from the lake was anything like level. Even then, the furniture had had to be nailed to the floor. Anything that was dropped would roll immediately into the water.

For the most part, this was not a problem. The valuable books were stored in another room where it was drier and flatter. The room's sole inhabitant had delicate hands, shriveled and leathery though they were, and death had spared to his fingers what it had robbed from the jerky scraps that served him for leg muscle. His nerves were ordinarily as steady as only a prolonged and thoughtful unlife could make them. And the locus of all the dark magic that centered on this place was _here, _making it an irresistible place for him.

He could not imagine what it was that had made him drop the only thing that was truly important to him and let it slide away into the darkness. He had not been so foolish as to transfer his mortal soul into anything fragile, but even stone might be ground away by stone. Moment by moment he imagined it being rubbed and chipped away by the action of the water. It frightened him. And nothing had frightened him in threescore years and more.

He dared not dive in after it. He could not swim. Though he would risk any damage to his undead flesh, which he could heal by magic if it did not regenerate, he feared his half-blind groping might knock it away into a deeper crevice from which he could never retrieve it. He clutched at the empty setting on his necklace, long black nails scraping the metal. He had feared the jewel was working loose from its setting, and his probing had made fear become reality – and he had been too slow to catch it.

His name was Adanatir. He cursed himself by it as he paced the platform, forevermore hunched and limping when he chose to walk on two feet. He dared not send any of the others after it. The ghosts would not go into the water no matter what the threat, and even if he could make a zombie understand, they were far too clumsy. The skeletons were better, but without palms to their hands they could never hold something so small and round even if they could find it.

It was after some hours of pacing and fretting that he heard noises up above his chamber. Adanatir stopped, deferring damnation in favor of immediate threat, and drew power to himself. It lifted him easily above the floor. He glided across the water toward the air shaft, listening to the voices and the clash of weapons.

That went on for a while. Some of it was very interesting, far better than the nervous adventurers he had occasionally heard from the courtyard. He had not seen a Dremora in years, for he had not summoned them in life. He had not summoned anything in a long time. Why should he? Fort Ashen was full of those who would easily succumb to a more powerful will. Those one or two who were unsusceptible had been amenable to persuasion.

Sodrinye caused him some concern. He had never heard of the subrace of Sleepers before, but he recognized the likelihood that he was about to meet a spellcaster as powerful as himself (or more, he admitted silently; Adanatir had less ego than most liches). He could feel the tendrils of power that extended into the air around her, disrupting the borders of his own aura even from so far above.

Adanatir loved a puzzle. Perhaps he could convince them to talk to him. He hadn't talked to anyone in a very long time -

There was a smaller human with them, he realized suddenly, listening to the voices. A girl. Someone who would have sharp eyes and, and this was the whelmingly important part, small and dextrous hands. Someone mage-trained, by the Worm! This was better and better. Maybe they could solve his problem for him.

Adanatir turned and paced again, this time hovering over the water. He knew himself to be a being of less than usual guile. And Dremora were supposed to be cunning. They would know if they could overpower him easily. All his companions here in the dark would be a bit more of a problem, of course, if he could but convince them of that – and if they did not attack him on sight, of course.

_Toward that end... _Adanatir coasted back toward the door to the room, sending out a mental summons to the foremost of the bone men. _Skeleton guardian _was what the other necromancers would call this special revenant, though that designation would mean little to the being himself. He could not speak aloud, and in mental communication he called himself by what he could remember of his born name.

_Carcharus, my friend_, said Adanatir silently as the wooden doors creaked open. The skeleton in the iron cuirass stood in the doorway, his rusty claymore dragging the ground beside him. _There will be four beings entering the ruin from above. Do not let the others harm them. Lead them to me._

"Kshhh," said the skeleton, though Adanatir had never seen any shred of vocal cords clinging to his spine. Inside Adanatir's mind he said, _You want them for something, old mage?_

_Yes, _said Adanatir. _I have lost something important which I hope they will recover. Something only a living person could find._

_Then you will have it, _said Carcharus, and turned to stalk back into the ruin.

---

"That's very strange," said Laure. She watched the luminous whisp drift past them as if it had not seen them. The ghost's shape was roughly humanoid, but it was so old that its memory of its own body had nearly faded; it was reduced to an amorphous and sexless semblance of a person's upper half. "I would have expected it to attack us on sight."

They stood a few yards inside the ruin's front door, moving slowly inward down a broad corridor. The stone floor seemed to slope toward the lake side on their left, making footing awkward. Laure and Sodrinye walked with Ebel-Merodach in front and Menien Goneld behind them.

The corridor seemed to be opening out into a larger room up ahead. There were one or two passages off to each side. As they came closer, Laure saw that one seemed to slope downwards.

A skeleton stood in the doorway. A cuirass of iron, its padding rotted to shreds, hung awkwardly caught on the framework of scapulae and clavicles. One pauldron was askew. It was very still, but Laure felt the breath of spiritual corruption that meant it was undead, not merely a corpse. Besides, it held a rusty claymore in one hand, clasped in bony fingers to which no shred of adhesive flesh clung.

As she watched, the skeleton raised its free hand. One white fingerbone beckoned.

"I don't like this," said Menien Goneld.

"I think someone wants a word," said Laure. "It would explain why nothing has attacked us." The skeleton was turning slowly around in the doorway, facing down the slope. It stood there with its back to them, apparently waiting. The Sleeper cocked her head in the gloom. A flicker of violet glowed in her eyes.

"We will follow," she said. "Ebel-Merodach first."

The big caitiff drew his mace and moved silently toward the skeleton. It moved off slowly down the slope of the corridor. Sodrinye stepped in front of Laure with her stiff, limping walk and started down after Merodach. Laure followed. She heard the soft pad of Menien Goneld's feet behind her. He did not hesitate, though she heard him mutter something as they proceeded down into the dark.

"I can light us," said Laure. Her voice seemed to echo away down the slimy corridor.

"Do it," said Goneld behind her. "We might need Sodrinye later."

"Yes," said the Sleeper.

Laure raised one hand and called up the magicka. A soft green glow sprang up around her. There wasn't much to see as they went on downwards. The stone walls were slick with moisture; they reflected and distorted the light. An occasional white mushroom squashed horribly underfoot. Nothing else could grow down here in the dark.

She had to repeat the spell twice before they reached the bottom of the narrow hall. In apprehension she tested the air for the stench of rotting flesh, the sign that zombies were present, but there was only the smell of damp and mold. The stone might be slowly decaying around them, but that was all. _Every revenant here is very old. Those that began as zombies are skeletons now, rotted down to the bones and still walking. _

After what seemed like hours they stepped out into a great open space beneath the roof. They stood on a small dais at one end of a great room. The floor was canted sharply away from them, and black water lapped at the stone. Someone had set up a few pieces of furniture at the other end of the platform, and this was too new to belong to the ruin's original contents. From their odd angle with the stone, they must be nailed down. Laure contemplated the inhuman strength this must have taken with misgiving. Then she looked out over the water and saw the lich.

It hovered well out over the surface, out of reach of sword or knife. Like the only other lich Laure had seen, it wore what had once been a leathern robe designed to survive years of hard wear. Now it was rotted into strips that hung about the creature's leathery legs. It wore one armored boot. The other black-nailed foot was bare. Unlike the other one, this lich wore no helm, and a single lock of white hair clung to the crown of its head. A long staff was clutched in one clawlike hand, but the lich held it down at one side, not threatening.

The mummified jaws creaked open. The creature's voice seemed to come from deep and far away, and the quality of dark magic in it raised the hairs along Laure's spine, but the words were clear and distinct.

"I am Adanatir," said the lich. "I have awaited your coming for some time."


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

"I am Sodrinye the Sleeper," said the smaller of the two Dremora. "What do you want with us?" She was an odd-looking creature for that race, curly-horned and unusually thin. She walked and stood even more awkwardly than Adanatir himself, stiff as a month-old zombie.

"I might ask you the same question," said Adanatir warily. The larger of the two kyn carried a mace in his hand, but he did not appear about to attack. He looked around the room with a sneer which Adanatir correctly interpreted as a neutral expression for a warrior kynaz. The smaller one's face was disconcertingly blank by comparison. The two humans watched Adanatir cautiously, but even the girl did not seem particularly frightened by him.

"We need a place of concealment," said the Sleeper. She raised one arm slowly, and Adanatir tensed, but she merely set it on the outstretched forearm of the bigger kynaz.

"You seem to have dealt with those above with no trouble," said Adanatir.

"They killed my caitiff, and I was at pains to recover him," said Sodrinye. "It is likely I would not be able to do so again. It is best that the Imperium not know we still live."

"And you want to stay here?" said Adanatir. He waved his free hand. "In a ruin full of undead? These friends of mine have been here for centuries, destroyed more times than I can count. As long as I can keep the priests away, they are permanent."

"So much the better," said Sodrinye. "We have no reason to fear human dead." Behind her the two humans exchanged glances, but did not speak. "We do not require much space. Near an airshaft, so that we can make fire. We will not trespass on places which are yours."

"I will consider it," said Adanatir. "If one of you performs a service for me."

"What is it you require?" said Sodrinye.

"I am preparing a rare unguent which requires special ingredients," he said, reciting his carefully-prepared lie. "In my position the diamond was particularly hard to acquire. I have lost it. And I cannot swim." He pointed down at the dark water with a shriveled finger.

Everyone except Sodrinye stared at the slick surface. There was a momentary silence.

"I also cannot swim," said Sodrinye. The peculiar violet eyes still watched Adanatir, giving him the uncomfortable feeling that his leathery skin was transparent. No one suggested the big kynaz do it. He was wearing heavy armor, Adanatir could not picture him removing it voluntarily, and if the lich knew anything about kyn, he knew he would not leave the one he served. _Particularly not with me._

"I can," said the older of the two humans.

"It won't be enough," said the girl immediately. "It will be dark, and perhaps deep - "

"I am told it is three yards or more," said Adanatir.

" - And you can't breathe underwater or make your own light. I can."

"You're a little young to have learned to water breathe, Laure," said the older one, looking severely at the girl. Adanatir remembered him as Goneld.

"I _am _a Breton, you know," she said severely. "And an unusually fast learner. Would they have taken me on at the Chapel at this age otherwise?" She turned to Adanatir. "How large is the diamond, sir?"

_Sir? _he thought. He held up a thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "So," he said. "It is rough. It will not sparkle like a cut diamond."

The girl raised her eyebrows. Adanatir was thankful that his face in its current state did not show much in the way of expression.

"That _would _be hard for a lich to come by," she said. "_Very_ hard."

"There is something you are not telling us," said Sodrinye. Finally she turned back toward the others. Adanatir was again thankful that he was neither able to hold his breath nor release it. "What is a diamond, Menien Goneld?"

"Not many of those in the Deadlands, are there," said Goneld. "They're very hard and very rare. Humans use them in jewelry. One an inch long, even a rough one, would be worth a lot of gold. More than I've seen in my entire life."

"Only if it were an extremely good stone," said Adanatir quickly. "Which I assure you it is not."

"For magical purposes, it couldn't be of low quality," said the girl at once. Adanatir drew himself up haughtily.

"Child, I am _hundreds of years old. _I have magical arts of which you have not the slightest conception - "

"It's your soul, isn't it," said Laure. Adanatir opened his creaky jaw and then snapped it shut before he gave anything else away.

"Explain," said Sodrinye.

"He's a lich," said Laure. "That means he keeps his soul somewhere outside of his body. It'd be good common sense to pick something almost indestructible. Like a diamond."

"You want Laure to retrieve your soul," said Sodrinye, turning back to Adanatir. "That is of more importance than a gemstone. We will choose our own space."

"It is _not _my - " Adanatir began.

"Then we will leave," said Sodrinye. "Perhaps we will find another place to stay."

"You will not," said Adanatir, trying to regain lost ground. "I heard what passed up above. You've killed Blades. They won't stop until they've found you. You might find another hiding place, but it will not be good enough. And next time they will be better prepared."

"They will not," said Sodrinye. "They are not now certain that we exist. They cannot easily coerce the atronach, and all the other witnesses are dead."

---

No doubt because of residual fallout from the aedric nullification caused by proximity to an elder priest of Arkay, she was wrong about that. Tracks-Too-Well was very nearly certain of what had happened inside the ruin – he'd seen the light from a huge fireball, and no one who had gone in had come out.

This had left him with a few options as he stood there at the treeline, tail twitching. He could go inside and find out what had happened. On the other hand, the Argonian had not reached his current age in his current profession without any survival instinct, and he didn't want to be seen by the two Dremora. Especially not the sick one. He had nightmares about what that would be like. _And what would happen after that, yes. _

He could report to his last Blade contact, try to tell him what had happened, and hope his superiors believed Tracks-Too-Well in the absence of other evidence. Pointed questions were likely to be asked and the Blades were known to be untrusting of nonhumans lately.

He didn't particularly like the odds on that one, either.

He could run. There weren't a lot of places in Cyrodiil where the Blades would not find him.

It is at times like this that an Argonian feels most called to return home. Not even the Imperium would find him in the Marsh. And he had not completely lost touch with those who knew his true name, no.

His mind made up, Tracks-Too-Well turned and vanished into the forest and forever out of the sight of men.

---

"Bring me the diamond," snarled the lich Adanatir. "Then we will talk."

"Are there slaughterfish in there?" Menien Goneld asked abruptly. He dropped to one knee at the top of the slimy slope, looking at the black water. If he knew the two kyn, neither had blinked in five minutes; the lich and the exit were extremely well watched. The water was inky black. He saw no sign of a fin, no stray flick of a tail.

"I can deal with slaughterfish," said Laure behind him. He'd begun to realize she wasn't particularly good at concealing her emotions, but her voice was calm. He heard the quiet rustle of her robe as she stepped up beside him on the stone. "Slaughterfish will be _easy _compared to these last two days."

"You are willing, Laure?" said Sodrinye.

"Oh, yes," said the Breton.

"There is nothing there," said the lich. His distorted voice was hard to read, but Goneld thought it sounded sullen. "Every living thing diverts around the ruin. It is only that I cannot enter the water."

Goneld straightened slowly, looking down at Laure. She looked up at him. "I can cast detect life as well, you know," she said dryly, and began to untie the belt of her robe. He opened his mouth to object again, stopped at the sight of a surprisingly shapely body in thin linens, and closed it as Laure shoved her robe into his hands and dove beneath the black water.

He began counting silently. After ten seconds there was a brief light from below, a blue spiral as Laure presumably enabled herself to breathe underwater. After another minute, it happened again. Another minute passed. Another blue spiral, this time from a few yards away. Nothing seemed illumined by the light; it lit and vanished without revealing anything, an isolated spark quickly subsumed.

There was a booted footstep behind him. Ebel-Merodach was pacing, keeping an eye on the entire chamber. _The way I should be. _Sodrinye had not moved. She had been standing a long time, he realized. Goneld wondered how long it would be before she dropped to the hard floor like a marionette with cut strings. The lich still hovered over the water, but he had drifted closer to the edge of the furnished area, away from where Laure was. Goneld tried to envision the creature's real intent. It could not be meant as a distraction. He had no reason to believe the two kyn would care if anything happened to Laure.

"She's not going to last a week if she keeps _volunteering,_" Goneld muttered.

"She is a resilient creature, I suspect," Sodrinye said. She was looking at the lich. "And you are overly prejudiced against her age. Did you not call me _girl _the first time you saw me?"

"That was different," said Goneld. "She _is _a girl."

He was relieved to see Laure's head break the water's surface, saving him from hearing the Sleeper's response. He reached down and helped her scramble up the slippery slope and out of the water. She shivered in the clammy air, water running off her clinging garments, but her left hand was closed tightly into a fist. Goneld draped her robe around her shoulders.

"Is this your diamond?" she asked, and opened her hand. Goneld raised his eyebrows. If anything, the lich had underreported the size of the stone. The lumpy gray-white gem shone dully in the cavernous room.

"Yes! Give it to me," said the lich, gliding forward. Goneld took Laure's elbow and guided her behind Sodrinye.

"We will stay here," said Sodrinye. "In whatever chamber we choose other than this one."

"Not the one I keep my books in," said the lich. "Otherwise, yes. Do as you like. Now give me the stone!"

"And you realize that any violence against us will fail," Sodrinye went on. She held out a hand without looking behind her. Laure stepped forward and pressed the diamond into it. The lich's milky eyes followed the gem anxiously.

"I am not a fool," said Adanatir.

"Then take what is yours." Sodrinye stepped forward and set the stone carefully on the floor, then backed clumsily away. The lich swooped down on it like a diving eagle, clutching it in his clawed hands. He turned it over and over, checking the surface.

"Come," said Sodrinye, and turned to lurch toward the door. Ebel-Merodach came to hold one of her elbows. "We will choose." She took one or two steps toward the doorway before her knees buckled. Ebel-Merodach seized her by the collar with one hand to stop her fall, drew his mace with the other, and whirled on the lich.

The old undead stared back at him in apparent surprise, still clutching the soul stone. Goneld and Laure moved back toward the doorway. She was still shivering. _I'll build us a fire as soon as we find a place. There must be something down here that will burn._

"I didn't do anything to her," said Adanatir. "I keep my word, you know."

"No. It is her nature." Merodach stood in silence for a moment, watching him. Then he sheathed the mace and bent to scoop up the Sleeper. He slung her over one shoulder. "We will talk again, Adanatir," he said.

"I look forward to it," said the lich. His tone was almost gracious, or Goneld's tired ears deceived him. "And I shall see too it that no traces are left outside. My friends here can help with that."

"Thanks," said Goneld, since Merodach probably didn't know the correct response. "We'll be going now."

"Yes, do. I have work to do."

Menien Goneld and Laure followed the caitiff back up the winding passage, water squelching in Laure's sandals. Ebel-Merodach did not complain of the extra weight. But then, it was his right to carry it.


	32. Chapter 32

_Epilogue_

There was an investigation, of course.

The first pair of Blades got a hundred yards into the ruin before they were swarmed by undead and chased unceremoniously back out.

The _second _party of Blades was three extremely stealthy men and a renowned mage. They made it almost two hundred before they, too, were detected and chased out. Nobody saw any trace of a living presence.

By the time the third party arrived, all the undead on the outer walls had risen again. They didn't even get through the front doors. After that it was officially decided that, whatever had caused four Blades and a tracker to vanish, it was long gone. They never did locate Tracks-Too-Well, who lived out the rest of his days fishing in the company of an easygoing female named Krzx-An.

Two Kyn and two humans settled in the driest chamber they could find, next to an air shaft but not too far from the nearest water leak. Somewhat to Ebel-Merodach's disgust, they found a secret exit from the ruin that led out into the waters of the lake. A crash course in swimming soon enabled him to hunt for himself and Sodrinye while Menien Goneld put an old set of skills to good use. Laure, once it was explained to her why lightning spells were a bad idea underwater, was helpful with this as well. By the time they saw their first winter they had worked out the sanitary arrangements and the Blades had stopped coming.

Menien Goneld never went back to Kvatch. But then, as he often thought to himself while watching Laure undress to go swimming, there were compensations. Laure herself was not unhappy to live in the same building as a much older and wiser mage, and her uncritical fascination eventually won Adanatir over. Once he had securely wired his soul stone to the inside of his ribcage, the old lich never thought of harming his new housemates. He had not realized how very bored he was until diversion returned and brought with it new conversations and new faces.

_Meanwhile, far out in the Void among the planes of Oblivion, the Sleeper Pelinrye made contact with a Sleeper from another clan. And another. Magicka was hoarded and many plans were made._

_The time of Dagon was over. The Age of the Sleepers had begun._

_After many months and many, many words, this tale is finally at _

THE END

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